Atit Shah

EASY VS. DIFFICULT

2011-03-21T21:59:00.000+05:30

Easy is to judge the mistakes of others Difficult is to recognize our own mistakes
Easy is to talk without thinking Difficult is to refrain the tongue
Easy is to hurt someone who loves us. Difficult is to heal the wound...
Easy is to forgive others Difficult is to ask for forgiveness
Easy is to set rules. Difficult is to follow them...
Easy is to dream every night. Difficult is to fight for a dream...
Easy is to show victory. Difficult is to assume defeat with dignity...
Easy is to admire a full moon. Difficult to see the other side...
Easy is to stumble with a stone. Difficult is to get up...
Easy is to enjoy life every day. Difficult to give its real value...
Easy is to promise something to someone. Difficult is to fulfill that promise...
Easy is to say we love. Difficult is to show it every day...
Easy is to criticize others. Difficult is to improve oneself...
Easy is to make mistakes. Difficult is to learn from them...
Easy is to weep for a lost love. Difficult is to take care of it so not to lose it.
Easy is to think about improving. Difficult is to stop thinking it and put it into action...
Easy is to think bad of others Difficult is to give them the benefit of the doubt...
Easy is to receive Difficult is to give
Easy to read this Difficult to follow
Easy is keep the friendship with words Difficult is to keep it with meanings

Do it beacause it is the right thing to do...

2011-01-16T15:04:00.001+05:30

A young, 18-year-old student was struggling to pay his fees while he was studying at Stanford University in 1892. He was an orphan, and not knowing where to turn for money, he came up with a bright idea. A friend and he decided to host a musical concert on campus to raise money for their education.

They reached out to the great pianist Ignacy J. Paderewski - who was quite a superstar those days. His manager demanded a guaranteed fee of $2000 for the piano recital. A deal was struck. And the boys began to work to make the concert a success.
The big day arrived. Paderewski performed at Stanford. But unfortunately, they had not managed to sell enough tickets. The total collection was only $1600.

Disappointed, they went up to Paderewski and explained their plight. They gave him the entire $1600, plus a cheque for the balance $400. They promised to honour the cheque soonest possible.

"No way!" said Paderewski. "This is just not acceptable!" He tore up the cheque, returned the $1600 and told the two boys "Here's the $1600. Please deduct whatever expenses you have incurred. Keep the money you need for your fees. And just give me whatever is left!" The boys were surprised, and quite overjoyed. They thanked him profusely.

It was a small act of kindness. But it clearly marked out Paderewski as a great human being. Someone special. He would have been within his rights to demand his "guaranteed money".

The truly great people think, "If I don't help them, what will happen to them?". Most only think of themselves, the loss they might incur, the trouble they might have to go through and the sacrifice they need to make.

The great men don't think of themselves. They think of the difference it could make to other people. And that's what drives their actions. They help not because someone else is watching, or because it will look good when the world comes to know about it. They don't do it expecting something in return.

They do it because they feel it's the right thing to do.

It may not surprise you to know that Paderewski went on to become the Prime Minister of Poland. He was a great leader, but unfortunately when the World War began, Poland was ravaged. There were over 1.5 million people starving in his country, and no money to feed them. Paderewski did not know where to turn for help.

He reached out to the US Food and Relief Administration for help. The head there was a man called Herbert Hoover - who later went on to become the US President. Hoover agreed to help and quickly shipped tons of food grains to feed the starving Polish people. A calamity was averted.

Paderewski was relieved! He decided to go across to meet Hoover and personally thank him.

When Paderewski began to thank Hoover for his noble gesture, Hoover quickly interjected and said, "You shouldn't be thanking me Mr. Prime Minister. You may not remember this, but several years ago, you helped two young students go through college in the US. I was one of them."

It is rightly said that you can achieve everything you want in life if only you help other people achieve what they want in their lives.
Forwarded by Mr.R. Ramakrishnan.

Appreciation v/s entitlements

2010-11-20T17:05:00.001+05:30

One young academically excellent person went to apply for a managerial position in a big company. He passed the first interview, the director did the last interview, made the last decision. The director discovered from the CV that the youth's academic achievements were excellent all the way, from the secondary school until the postgraduate research, never had a year when he did not score high.
The director asked, "Did you obtain any scholarships in school?" the youth answered "none".
The director asked, " Was it your father who paid for your school fees?" The youth answered, "My father passed away when I was one year old, it was my mother who paid for my school fees.

The director asked, " Where did your mother work?" The youth answered, "My mother worked as clothes cleaner. The director requested the youth to show his hands. The youth showed a pair of hands that were smooth and perfect.
The director asked, " Have you ever helped your mother wash the clothes before?" The youth answered, "Never, my mother always wanted me to study and read more books. Furthermore, my mother can wash clothes faster than me.
The director said, "I have a request. When you go back today, go and clean your mother's hands, and then see me tomorrow morning.*
The youth felt that his chance of landing the job was high. When he went back, he happily requested his mother to let him clean her hands. His mother felt strange, happy but with mixed feelings, she showed her hands to the kid.
The youth cleaned his mother's hands slowly. His tear fell as he did that. It was the first time he noticed that his mother's hands were so wrinkled, and there were so many bruises in her hands. Some bruises were so painful that his mother shivered when they were cleaned with water.
This was the first time the youth realized that it was this pair of hands that washed the clothes everyday to enable him to pay the school fee. The bruises in the mother's hands were the price that the mother had to pay for his graduation, academic excellence and his future.
After finishing the cleaning of his mother hands, the youth quietly washed all the remaining clothes for his mother. That night, mother and son talked for a very long time.
Next morning, the youth went to the director's office. The Director noticed the tears in the youth's eyes, asked: " Can you tell me what have you done and learned yesterday in your house?"
The youth answered, " I cleaned my mother's hand, and also finished cleaning all the remaining clothes'. The Director asked, " please tell me your feelings."
The youth said,
Number 1: I know now what is appreciation. Without my mother, there would not the successful me today.
Number 2: By working together and helping my mother, only I now realize how difficult and tough it is to get something done.
Number 3: I have come to appreciate the importance and value of family relationship.
The director said, " This is what I am looking for to be my manager.
I want to recruit a person who can appreciate the help of others, a person who knows the sufferings of others to get things done, and a person who would not put money as his only goal in life. You are hired.
Later on, this young person worked very hard, and received the respect of his subordinates. Every employee worked diligently and as a team. The company's performance improved tremendously.
A child, who has been protected and habitually given whatever he wanted, would develop "entitlement mentality" and would always put himself first. He would be ignorant of his parent's efforts. When he starts work, he assumes that every person must listen to him, and when he becomes a manager, he would never know the sufferings of his employees and would always blame others. For this kind of people, who may be good academically, may be successful for a while, but eventually would not feel sense of achievement. He will grumble and be full of hatred and fight for more. If we are this kind of protective parents, are we really showing love or are we destroying the kid instead?*
You can let your kid live in a big house, eat a good meal, learn piano, watch a big screen TV. But when you are cutting grass, please let them experience it. After a meal, let them wash their plates and bowls together with their brothers and sisters. It is not because you do not have money to hire a maid, but it is because you want to love them in a right way. You want them to understand, no matter how rich their parents are, one day their hair will grow gray, same as the mother of that young person. The most important thing is your kid learns how to appreciate the effort and experience the difficulty and learns the ability to work with others to get things done.

***********

Source - A forwarded mail.

***********

Do you still have the fight left in you for those dream of yours..

2010-10-10T13:09:00.001+05:30

The first symptom of the process of our killing our dreams is the lack of time. The busiest people I have known in my life always have time enough to do everything. Those who do nothing are always tired and pay no attention to the little amount of work they are required to do. They complain constantly that the day is too short. The truth is, they are afraid to fight the Good Fight.

The second symptom of the death of our dreams lies in our certainties. Because we don’t want to see life as a grand adventure, we begin to think of ourselves as wise and fair and correct in asking so little of life. We look beyond the walls of our day-to-day existence, and we hear the sound of lances breaking, we smell the dust and the sweat, and we see the great defeats and the fire in the eyes of the warriors. But we never see the delight, the immense delight in the hearts of those who are engaged in the battle. For them, neither victory nor defeat is important; what’s important is only that they are fighting the Good Fight.

And, finally, the third symptom of the passing of our dreams is peace. Life becomes a Sunday afternoon; we ask for nothing grand, and we cease to demand anything more than we are willing to give. In that state, we think of ourselves as being mature; we put aside the fantasies of our youth, and we seek personal and professional achievement. We are surprised when people our age say that they still want this or that out of life. But really, deep in our hearts, we know that what has happened is that we have renounced the battle for our dreams – we have refused to fight the Good Fight.

When we renounce our dreams and find peace, we go through a short period of tranquility. But the dead dreams begin to rot within us and to infect our entire being.
We become cruel to those around us, and then we begin to direct this cruelty against ourselves. That’s when illnesses and psychoses arise. What we sought to avoid in combat – disappointment and defeat – come upon us because of our cowardice.

And one day, the dead, spoiled dreams make it difficult to breathe, and we actually seek death. It’s death that frees us from our certainties, from our work, and from that terrible peace of our Sunday afternoons

-Words from Petrus to me during The pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela by Paulo Coelho.

A lesson learnt

2010-10-10T13:08:00.000+05:30

One old man was sitting with his 25 years old son in the train.
Train is about to leave the station.
All passengers are settling down their seat.
As train started young man was filled with lot of joy and curiosity
He was sitting on the window side.
He went out one hand and feeling the passing air. He shouted, "Papa see all trees are going behind".

Old man smile and admired son feelings.

Beside the young man one couple was sitting and listening all
the conversion between father and son.
They were little awkward with the attitude of 25 years old man behaving like a small child.
Suddenly young man again shouted, "Papa see the pond and animals. Clouds are moving with train".

Couple was watching the young man in embarrassingly.

Now its start raining and some of water drops touches the young man's hand.
He filled with joy and he closed the eyes.
He shouted again," Papa it's raining, water is touching me, see papa".
Couple couldn't help themselves and ask the old man.

"Why don't you visit the Doctor and get treatment for your son."

Old man said,
" Yes, We are coming from the hospital as Today only my son got his eye sight for first time in his life".

Moral: "Don’t draw conclusions until you know all the facts"

Chanakya Quotes

2010-09-12T23:32:00.000+05:30

“A person should not be too honest.
Straight trees are cut first
And Honest people are screwed first.”

“Even if a snake is not poisonous,
It should pretend to be venomous.”

“The biggest guru-mantra is: Never share your secrets with anybody. ! It will destroy you.”

“There is some self-interest behind every friendship.
There is no Friendship without self-interests.
This is a bitter truth.”

“Before you start some work, always ask yourself three questions – Why am I doing it, What the results might be and Will I be successful. Only when you think deeply
And find satisfactory answers to these questions, go ahead.”

“As soon as the fear approaches near, attack and destroy it.”

“Once you start a working on something,
Don’t be afraid of failure and
Don’t abandon it.
People who work sincerely are the happiest.”

“The fragrance of flowers spreads
Only in the direction of the wind.
But the goodness of a person spreads in all direction.”

“A man is great by deeds, not by birth.”

“Treat your kid like a darling for the first five years.
For the next five years, scold them.
By the time they turn sixteen, treat them like a friend.
Your grown up children are your best friends.”

“Books are as useful to a stupid person
As a mirror is useful to a blind person.”

“Education is the best friend.
An educated person is respected everywhere.
Education beats the beauty and the youth.”

Don't copy if you can't paste

2010-05-18T20:09:00.001+05:30

A popular motivational speaker was entertaining his audience. He Said: "The best years of my life were spent in the arms of a woman who wasn't my wife!”. The audience was in silence and shock. The speaker added: "And that woman was my mother!"

Laughter and applause.

A week later, a top manager trained by the motivational speaker tried to crack this very effective joke at home.

He was a bit foggy after a drink. He said loudly to his wife who was preparing dinner, "The greatest years of my life were spent in the arms of a woman who was not my wife!"

The wife went; "ah!" with shock and rage.

Standing there for 20 seconds trying to recall the second half of the joke, the manager finally blurted out"...and I can't remember who she was!"

By the time the manager regained his consciousness, he was on a hospital bed nursing burns from boiling water.

Moral of the story: Don't copy if you can't paste!

Why English Is a Funny Language?!!!

2010-01-01T19:05:00.000+05:30

In what other language do people drive in a parkway and park in a driveway?

Why does night fall but never break and day break but never fall?

Why is it that when we transport something by car, it's called a shipment, but when we transport something by ship, it's called cargo?

Why are people who ride motorcycles called bikers and people who ride bikes called cyclists?

In what other language do they call the third hand on the clock the second hand?

Why is it called a TV set when you get only one?

Why - in our crazy language - can your nose run and your feet smell?

Sometimes you have to believe that all English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane:

If olive oil is made of olives, what do they make baby oil from?

If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian consume?

A writer is someone who writes, and a stinger is something that stings.

But fingers don't fing and grocers don't groce.

If the plural of tooth is teeth, shouldn't the plural of booth be beeth?

If the teacher taught, why isn't it also true that the preacher praught?

If harmless actions are the opposite of harmful actions, why are shameless and shameful behavior the same?

English is a language in which you can turn a light on and you can turn a light off and you can turn a light out, but you can't turn a light in;

In which the sun comes up and goes down, but prices go up and come down.

In which your nose can simultaneously burn up and burn down and your car can slow up and slow down, in which you can fill in a form by filling out a form and in which your alarm clock goes off by going on.

English is a crazy language. What is it that when the sun or the moon or the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are out, they are invisible; and why when I wind up my watch, I start it, but when I wind up this essay, I shall end it?

Tricky Plurals
============ ===

We'll begin with a box, and the plural is boxes;

but the plural of ox became oxen not oxes.

One fowl is a goose, but two are called geese,

yet the plural of moose should never be meese.

You may find a lone mouse or a nest full of mice;

yet the plural of house is houses, not hice.

If the plural of man is always called men,

why shouldn't the plural of pan be called pen?

If I spoke of my foot and show you my feet,

and I give you a boot, would a pair be called beet?

If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth,

why shouldn't the plural of booth be called beeth?

Then one may be that, and three would be those,

yet hat in the plural would never be hose,

and the plural of cat is cats, not cose.

We speak of a brother and also of brethren,

but though we say mother, we never say methren.

Then the masculine pronouns are he, his and him, but imagine the feminine, she, shis and shim.

Lets face it, English is a crazy language!

Farmer's Donkey (A heart touching lesson)

2009-12-13T20:34:00.007+05:30

2009-12-05T16:35:00.001+05:30

If a truth gun were put to our collective TV heads asking why we watch American Idol, and The Apprentice, the answer might be: we like watching people being humiliated. If that's true -- then how come there is a sub-set of Reality TV that can only be described as Shame TV because it uses humiliation as its core appeal. Sure, talent shows like American Idol have been around since radio starting with The Original Amateur Hour with Major Bowes. What is different about Idol is that this talent search is more about the losers than the winners. Like its forerunners, we do cheer for the powerful singer. But aren't we really waiting for Simon, Paula and Randy to rip into some over-eager, untalented hopeful who actually volunteered himself for public degradation?

We root for the neo-executives on The Apprentice. But aren't we really waiting for the last three minutes when the strange man with the orange-coloured, vinyl hair utters "You’re fired" through his pouty lips?

We can't seem to get enough of these debase-me-now shows. To this brand of Shame TV is now added the remarkable Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew, a one hour plunge into human abasement on VH1. The show says it chronicles "... the dramatic, unscripted real life experiences of a group of actual celebrities as they make the life-changing decision to enter themselves into a drug, alcohol and addiction treatment program with the sincere desire to achieve true rehabilitation and recovery."

To make sure we get the 'redeeming value' part, VH1 surrounds the show with visuals that ask viewers to "Watch and Discuss". Sure, but what we're liable to discuss is the decomposition of former Taxi TV star, Jeff Conaway, as he quivers with delirium tremors, shrieks with withdrawal pain and screams obscenities at his fellow rehabbers. Or we'll discuss a former porn star and her friend's demonstration of their considerable flatulence and belching skills while waiting for group therapy. On the Richter scale, this show is a 9.5.

To be sure, we feel Dr. Drew Pinsky's compassion as he tends to the healing process of these unfortunates. The show producers can claim they serve the public interest by showing how the addiction treatment process works. Of course, they could also put the show on WebMD.com, or some appropriate health outlet, for those specific folks who really need it. But they put it on TV. This show is entertainment, not a documentary. VH1 is interested in our eyes and ears. They know we are there to watch the train wreck, not the clean-up.

The first mystery is why so many people are willing to debase themselves in front of all of us? As for Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew, it's an extraordinary level of self-abasement, says Stuart Fischoff, Ph.D., Senior Editor at "The Journal of Media Psychology." It's being "pathetic as a career move, like grabbing onto a sewer pipe" he says about Celebrity Rehab's cast list.

Okay, that may explain the folks who go on these shows. But how do we account for why millions of us watch them? Its social comparison, explains Dr. Elliot Aronson, psychologist, Professor Emeritus, University of California at Santa Cruz and author of “Mistakes Were Made But Not By Me”- “Why We Justify Bad Decisions?” We evaluate ourselves in comparison with other people. "It's a balm to our self-esteem," he says. He believes we look at the loser contestants on Idol saying I'm better than that. I would never do that and look what happens to people who do that.

So we watch to feel better about ourselves -- got it. But there is a more disturbing angle to this and its name is 'schadenfreude', meaning we take pleasure from someone else's misfortune -- which is why slipping on a banana peel gets laughs. Clinical psychologist Dr. Geoffrey White, a Los Angeles-based consultant to Reality TV producers, calls this the current zeitgeist, the spirit of our times. In times like these, he believes, when Americans are feeling unsettled, uncertain and powerless, there is comfort, indeed enjoyment, in seeing other people suffer. We don't feel so alone. "Shame is the most disturbing emotion. We can identify with the people doing the humiliation without feeling responsible for it," he explains. Watching others being humiliated, it would appear, is helpful -- to the watchers.

None of us wants to believe we actually like seeing others humiliated. That's not part of our supposedly compassionate belief systems. Yet, our culture is shaped by the content of our media and our media is shaped by the content of our culture, so how do we account for this coarsening of our culture, this growth of Shame TV? Is this really the true spirit of our times?

THE 4 WIVES

2009-06-15T16:40:00.001+05:30

There was a rich merchant who had 4 wives. He loved the 4th wife the most and adorned her with rich robes and treated her to delicacies. He took great care of her and gave her nothing but the best.

He also loved the 3rd wife very much. He's very proud of her and always wanted to show off her to his friends. However, the merchant is always in great fear that she might run away with some other men.

He too, loved his 2nd wife. She is a very considerate person, always patient and in fact is the merchant's confidante. Whenever the merchant faced some problems, he always turned to his 2nd wife and she would always help him out and tide him through difficult times.

Now, the merchant's 1st wife is a very loyal partner and has made great contributions in maintaining his wealth and business as well as taking care of the household. However, the merchant did not love the first wife and although she loved him deeply, he hardly took notice of her.

One day, the merchant fell ill. Before long, he knew that he was going to die soon. He thought of his luxurious life and told himself, "Now I have 4 wives with me. But when I die, I'll be alone. How lonely I'll be!"

Thus, he asked the 4th wife, "I loved you most, endowed you with the finest clothing and showered great care over you. Now that I'm dying, will you follow me and keep me company?" "No way!" replied the 4th wife and she walked away without another word.

The answer cut like a sharp knife right into the merchant's heart. The sad merchant then asked the 3rd wife, "I have loved you so much for all my life. Now that I'm dying, will you follow me and keep me company?" "No!" replied the 3rd wife. "Life is so good over here! I'm going to remarry when you die!" The merchant's heart sank and turned cold.

He then asked the 2nd wife, "I always turned to you for help and you've always helped me out. Now I need your help again. When I die, will you follow me and keep me company?" "I'm sorry, I can't help you out this time!" replied the 2nd wife. "At the very most, I can only send you to your grave." The answer came like a bolt of thunder and the merchant was devastated.

Then a voice called out : "I'll leave with you. I'll follow you no matter where you go." The merchant looked up and there was his first wife. She was so skinny, almost like she suffered from malnutrition. Greatly grieved, the merchant said, "I should have taken much better care of you while I could have !"

Actually, we all have 4 wives in our lives

a. The 4th wife is our body. No matter how much time and effort we lavish in making it look good, it'll leave us when we die.

b. Our 3rd wife ? Our possessions, status and wealth. When we die, they all go to others.

c. The 2nd wife is our family and friends. No matter how close they had been there for us when we're alive, the furthest they can stay by us is up to the grave.

d. The 1st wife is in fact our soul, often neglected in our pursuit of material, wealth and sensual pleasure.

Guess what? It is actually the only thing that follows us wherever we go. Perhaps it's a good idea to cultivate and strengthen it now rather than to wait until we're on our deathbed to lament

A letter

2009-06-14T21:07:00.001+05:30

Ballou was an American patriot who immediately and voluntarily left his career and family and enlisted in the Union army when the Civil War commenced. A week before Bull Run, a battle in which he would be killed, Sullivan penned this love letter to his wife Sarah. Read over the words slowly and take in what a true man’s love sounds like:
July the 14th, 1861
Washington D.C.
My very dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days-perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.
Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure-and it may be one of severe conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine O God, be done. If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing-perfectly willing-to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt.
But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows-when, after having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it as their only sustenance to my dear little children-is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country?
I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death-and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee.
I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in thus hazarding the happiness of those I loved and I could not find one. A pure love of my country and of the principles have often advocated before the people and “the name of honor that I love more than I fear death” have called upon me, and I have obeyed.
Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.
The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when God willing, we might still have lived and loved together and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me-perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar-that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.
Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and my children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.
But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night-amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours-always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.
Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.
As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father’s love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue-eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited confidence in your maternal care and your development of their characters. Tell my two mothers his and hers I call God’s blessing upon them. O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead thither my children.
Sullivan

Difference between authoritarian and totalitarian states

2009-05-25T07:00:00.001+05:30

Difference between authoritarian and totalitarian states

According to Karl Loewenstein, "the term 'Authoritarian' denotes a political organization in which the single power holder - an individual person or 'dictator', an assembly, a committee, a junta, or a party - monopolizes political power. The term 'Authoritarian' refers rather to the structure of government than to the structure of society. An Authoritarian regime confines itself to political control of the state.
"The governmental techniques of a totalitarian regime are necessarily Authoritarian. But a totalitarian regime does much more. It attempts to mold the private life, soul, and morals of citizens to a dominant ideology. The officially proclaimed ideology penetrates into every nook and cranny of society; its ambition is total.
"Totalitarian regimes seek to destroy civil society i.e. communities that operate independently of the State. Neither the Italian fascists nor the Nazis completely 'destroyed their respective social structures', and so these countries 'could rapidly return to normalcy' after defeat in World War II. In contrast, attempts to reform the regime in the USSR 'led to nowhere because every non-governmental institution, whether social or economic, had to be built from scratch. The result was neither reform of Communism nor establishment of democracy, but a progressive breakdown of organized life'".[2]
In a comment about the similarity of religion to totalitarianism Christopher Hitchens has said "the urge to ban and censor books, silence dissenters, condemn outsiders, invade the private sphere, and invoke an exclusive salvation is the very essence of the totalitarian".[5]

The Game Of The Life

2009-02-22T21:57:00.000+05:30

Life is a game with a glorious prize,
If we can only play it right.
It is give and take, build and break,
And often it ends in a fight;
But he surely wins who honestly tries
(Regardless of wealth or fame),
He can never despair who plays it fair
How are you playing the game?

Do you wilt and whine, if you fail to win
In the manner you think your due?
Do you sneer at the man in case that he can
And does, do better than you?
Do you take your rebuffs with a knowing grin?
Do you laugh tho’ you pull up lame?
Does your faith hold true when the whole world’s blue?
How are you playing the game?

Get into the thick of it - wade in, boys!
Whatever your cherished goal;
Brace up your will till your pulses thrill,
And you dare to your very soul!
Do something more than make a noise;
Let your purpose leap into flame
As you plunge with a cry, “I shall do or die,”
Then you will be playing the game.

Jean Baudrillard. Simulacra and Simulations

2009-01-30T09:00:00.000+05:30

Jean Baudrillard. Simulacra and Simulations
Jean Baudrillard, Selected Writings, ed Mark Poster. Stanford University Press, 1998, pp.166-184.

The simulacrum is never that which conceals the truth — it is the truth which conceals that there is none.
The simulacrum is true.
Ecclesiastes

If we were able to take as the finest allegory of simulation the Borges tale where the cartographers of the Empire draw up a map so detailed that it ends up exactly covering the territory (but where, with the decline of the Empire this map becomes frayed and finally ruined, a few shreds still discernible in the deserts — the metaphysical beauty of this ruined abstraction, bearing witness to an imperial pride and rotting like a carcass, returning to the substance of the soil, rather as an aging double ends up being confused with the real thing), this fable would then have come full circle for us, and now has nothing but the discrete charm of second-order simulacra.l

Abstraction today is no longer that of the map, the double, the mirror or the concept. Simulation is no longer that of a territory, a referential being or a substance. It is the generation by models of a real without origin or reality: a hyperreal. The territory no longer precedes the map, nor survives it. Henceforth, it is the map that precedes the territory — precession of simulacra — it is the map that engenders the territory and if we were to revive the fable today, it would be the territory whose shreds are slowly rotting across the map. It is the real, and not the map, whose vestiges subsist here and there, in the deserts which are no longer those of the Empire, but our own. The desert of the real itself.

In fact, even inverted, the fable is useless. Perhaps only the allegory of the Empire remains. For it is with the same imperialism that present-day simulators try to make the real, all the real, coincide with their simulation models. But it is no longer a question of either maps or territory. Something has disappeared: the sovereign difference between them that was the abstraction's charm. For it is the difference which forms the poetry of the map and the charm of the territory, the magic of the concept and the charm of the real. This representational imaginary, which both culminates in and is engulfed by the cartographer's mad project of an ideal coextensivity between the map and the territory, disappears with simulation, whose operation is nuclear and genetic, and no longer specular and discursive. With it goes all of metaphysics. No more mirror of being and appearances, of the real and its concept; no more imaginary coextensivity: rather, genetic miniaturization is the dimension of simulation. The real is produced from miniaturized units, from matrices, memory banks and command models — and with these it can be reproduced an indefinite number of times. It no longer has to be rational, since it is no longer measured against some ideal or negative instance. It is nothing more than operational. In fact, since it is no longer enveloped by an imaginary, it is no longer real at all. It is a hyperreal: the product of an irradiating synthesis of combinatory models in a hyperspace without atmosphere.

In this passage to a space whose curvature is no longer that of the real, nor of truth, the age of simulation thus begins with a liquidation of all referentials — worse: by their art)ficial resurrection in systems of signs, which are a more ductile material than meaning, in that they lend themselves to all systems of equivalence, all binary oppositions and all combinatory algebra. It is no longer a question of imitation, nor of reduplication, nor even of parody. It is rather a question of substituting signs of the real for the real itself; that is, an operation to deter every real process by its operational double, a metastable, programmatic, perfect descriptive machine which provides all the signs of the real and short-circuits all its vicissitudes. Never again will the real have to be produced: this is the vital function of the model in a system of death, or rather of anticipated resurrection which no longer leaves any chance even in the event of death. A hyperreal henceforth sheltered from the imaginary, and from any distinction between the real and the imaginary, leaving room only for the orbital recurrence of models and the simulated generation of difference.

The divine irreference of images

To dissimulate is to feign not to have what one has. To simulate is to feign to have what one hasn't. One implies a presence, the other an absence. But the matter is more complicated, since to simulate is not simply to feign: "Someone who feigns an illness can simply go to bed and pretend he is ill. Someone who simulates an illness produces in himself some of the symptoms" (Littre). Thus, feigning or dissimulating leaves the reality principle intact: the difference is always clear, it is only masked; whereas simulation threatens the difference between "true" and "false", between "real" and "imaginary". Since the simulator produces "true" symptoms, is he or she ill or not? The simulator cannot be treated objectively either as ill, or as not ill. Psychology and medicine stop at this point, before a thereafter undiscoverable truth of the illness. For if any symptom can be "produced," and can no longer be accepted as a fact of nature, then every illness may be considered as simulatable and simulated, and medicine loses its meaning since it only knows how to treat "true" illnesses by their objective causes. Psychosomatics evolves in a dubious way on the edge of the illness principle. As for psychoanalysis, it transfers the symptom from the organic to the unconscious order: once again, the latter is held to be real, more real than the former; but why should simulation stop at the portals of the unconscious? Why couldn't the "work" of the unconscious be "produced" in the same way as any other symptom in classical medicine? Dreams already are.

The alienist, of course, claims that "for each form of the mental alienation there is a particular order in the succession of symptoms, of which the simulator is unaware and in the absence of which the alienist is unlikely to be deceived." This (which dates from 1865) in order to save at all cost the truth principle, and to escape the specter raised by simulation: namely that truth, reference and objective caues have ceased to exist. What can medicine do with something which floats on either side of illness, on either side of health, or with the reduplication of illness in a discourse that is no longer true or false? What can psychoanalysis do with the reduplication of the discourse of the unconscious in a discourse of simulation that can never be unmasked, since it isn't false either?2

What can the army do with simulators? Traditionally, following a direct principle of identification, it unmasks and punishes them. Today, it can reform an excellent simulator as though he were equivalent to a "real" homosexual, heart-case or lunatic. Even military psychology retreats from the Cartesian clarifies and hesitates to draw the distinction between true and false, between the "produced" symptom and the authentic symptom. "If he acts crazy so well, then he must be mad." Nor is it mistaken: in the sense that all lunatics are simulators, and this lack of distinction is the worst form of subversion. Against it, classical reason armed itself with all its categories. But it is this today which again outflanks them, submerging the truth principle.

Outside of medicine and the army, favored terrains of simulation, the affair goes back to religion and the simulacrum of divinity: "l forbade any simulacrum in the temples because the divinity that breathes life into nature cannot be represented." Indeed it can. But what becomes of the divinity when it reveals itself in icons, when it is multiplied in simulacra? Does it remain the supreme authority, simply incarnated in images as a visible theology? Or is it volatilized into simulacra which alone deploy their pomp and power of fascination — the visible machinery of icons being substituted for the pure and intelligible Idea of God? This is precisely what was feared by the Iconoclasts, whose millennial quarrel is still with us today.3 Their rage to destroy images rose precisely because they sensed this omnipotence of simulacra, this facility they have of erasing God from the consciousnesses of people, and the overwhelming, destructive truth which they suggest: that ultimately there has never been any God; that only simulacra exist; indeed that God himself has only ever been his own simulacrum. Had they been able to believe that images only occulted or masked the Platonic idea of God, there would have been no reason to destroy them. One can live with the idea of a distorted truth. But their metaphysical despair came from the idea that the images concealed nothing at all, and that in fact they were not images, such as the original model would have made them, but actually perfect simulacra forever radiant with their own fascination. But this death of the divine referential has to be exorcised at all cost.

It can be seen that the iconoclasts, who are often accused of despising and denying images, were in fact the ones who accorded them their actual worth, unlike the iconolaters, who saw in them only reflections and were content to venerate God at one remove. But the converse can also be said, namely that the iconolaters possesed the most modern and adventurous minds, since, underneath the idea of the apparition of God in the mirror of images, they already enacted his death and his disappearance in the epiphany of his representations (which they perhaps knew no longer represented anything, and that they were purely a game, but that this was precisely the greatest game — knowing also that it is dangerous to unmask images, since they dissimulate the fact that there is nothing behind them).

This was the approach of the Jesuits, who based their politics on the virtual disappearance of God and on the worldly and spectacular manipulation of consciences — the evanescence of God in the epiphany of power — the end of transcendence, which no longer serves as alibi for a strategy completely free of influences and signs. Behind the baroque of images hides the grey eminence of politics.

Thus perhaps at stake has always been the murderous capacity of images: murderers of the real; murderers of their own model as the Byzantine icons could murder the divine identity. To this murderous capacity is opposed the dialectical capacity of representations as a visible and intelligible mediation of the real. All of Western faith and good faith was engaged in this wager on representation: that a sign could refer to the depth of meaning, that a sign could exchange for meamng and that something could guarantee this exchangeGod, of course. But what if God himself can be simulated, that is to say, reduced to the signs which attest his existence? Then the whole system becomes weightless; it is no longer anything but a gigantic simulacrum: not unreal, but a simulacrum, never again exchanging for what is real, but exchanging in itself, in an umnterrupted circuit without reference or circumference

So it is with simulation, insofar as it is opposed to representation. Representation starts from the principle that the sign and the real are equivalent (even if this equivalence is Utopian, it is a fundamental ax~om). Conversely, simulation starts from the Utopia of this principle of equivalence, from the radical negation of the sign as value, from the sign as reversion and death sentence of every reference. Whereas representation tries to absorb simulation by interpreting it as false representation, simulation envelops the whole edifice of representation as itself a simulacrum.

These would be the successive phases of the image:

1. It is the reflection of a basic reality.
2. It masks and perverts a basic reality.
3. It masks the absence of a basic reality.
4. It bears no relation to any reality whatever: it is its own pure simulacrum.

In the first case, the image is a good appearance: the representation is of the order of sacrament. In the second, it is an evil appearance: of the order of malefice. In the third, it plays at being an appearance: it is of the order of sorcery. In the fourth, it is no longer in the order of appearance at all, but of simulation.

The transition from signs which dissimulate something to signs which dissimulate that there is nothing, marks the decisive turning pomt. The first implies a theology of truth and secrecy (to which the notmn of ideology still belongs). The second inaugurates an age of simulacra and simulation, in which there is no longer any God to recognize his own, nor any last judgement to separate truth from false, the real from its art)ficial resurrection, since everything is already dead and risen in advance.

When the real is no longer what it used to be, nostalgia assumes its full meaning. There is a proliferation of myths of origin and signs of reality; of second-hand truth, objectivity and authenticity. There is an escalation of the true, of the lived experience; a resurrection of the figurative where the object and substance have disappeared. And there is a panic-stricken production of the real and the referential, above and parallel to the panic of material production. This is how simulation appears in the phase that concerns us: a strategy of the real, neo-real and hyperreal, whose universal double is a strategy of deterrence.

Hyperreal and imaginary

Disneyland is a perfect model of all the entangled orders of simulation. To begin with it is a play of illusions and phantasms: pirates, the frontier, future world, etc. This imaginary world is supposed to be what makes the operation successful. But, what draws the crowds is undoubtedly much more the social microcosm, the miniaturized and religious revelling in real America, in its delights and drawbacks. You park outside, queue up inside, and are totally abandoned at the exit. In this imaginary world the only phantasmagoria is in the inherent warmth and affection of the crowd, and in that aufficiently excessive number of gadgets used there to specifically maintain the multitudinous affect. The contrast with the absolute solitude of the parking lot — a veritable concentration camp — is total. Or rather: inside, a whole range of gadgets magnetize the crowd into direct flows; outside, solitude is directed onto a single gadget: the automobile. By an extraordinary coincidence (one that undoubtedly belongs to the peculiar enchantment of this universe), this deep-frozen infantile world happens to have been conceived and realized by a man who is himself now cryogenized; Walt Disney, who awaits his resurrection at minus 180 degrees centigrade.

The objective profile of the United States, then, may be traced throughout Disneyland, even down to the morphology of individuals and the crowd. All its values are exalted here, in miniature and comic-strip form. Embalmed and pactfied. Whence the possibility of an ideological analysis of Disneyland (L. Marin does it well in Utopies, jeux d'espaces): digest of the American way of life, panegyric to American values, idealized transposition of a contradictory reality. To be sure. But this conceals something else, and that "ideological" blanket exactly serves to cover over a third-order simulation: Disneyland is there to conceal the fact that it is the "real" country, all of "real" America, which is Disneyland (just as prisons are there to conceal the fact that it is the social in its entirety, in its banal omnipresence, which is carceral). Disneyland is presented as imaginary in order to make us believe that the rest is real, when in fact all of Los Angeles and the America surrounding it are no longer real, but of the order of the hyperreal and of simulation. It is no longer a question of a false representation of reality (ideology), but of concealing the fact that the real is no longer real, and thus of saving the reality principle.

The Disneyland imaginary is neither true nor false: it is a deterrence machine set up in order to rejuvenate in reverse the fiction of the real. Whence the debility, the infantile degeneration of this imaginary. It ~s meant to be an infantile world, in order to make us believe that the adults are elsewhere, in the "real" world, and to conceal the fact that real childishness is everywhere, particularly among those adults who go there to act the child in order to foster illusions of their real childishness.

Moreover, Disneyland is not the only one. Enchanted Village, Magic Mountain, Marine World: Los Angeles is encircled by these "imaginary stations" which feed reality, reality-energy, to a town whose mystery is precisely that it is nothing more than a network of endless, unreal circulation: a town of fabulous proportions, but without space or dimensions. As much as electrical and nuclear power stations, as much as film studios, this town, which is nothing more than an immense script and a perpetual motion picture, needs this old imaginary made up of childhood signals and faked phantasms for its sympathetic nervous system.

Political incantation

Watergate. Same scenario as Disneyland (an imaginary effect concealing that reality no more exists outside than inside the bounds of the art)ficial perimeter): though here it is a scandal-effect concealing that there is no difference between the facts and their denunciation (identical methods are employed by the CIA and the Washington Post journalists). Same operation, though this time tending towards scandal as a means to regenerate a moral and political principle, towards the imaginary as a means to regenerate a reality principle in distress.

The denunciation of scandal always pays homage to the law. And Watergate above all succeeded in imposing the idea that Watergate was a scandal — in this sense it was an extraordinary operation of intoxication: the reinjection of a large dose of political morality on a global scale. It could be said along with Bourdieu that: "The specific character of every relation of force is to dissimulate itself as such, and to acquire all its force only because it is so dissimulated"; understood as follows: capital, which is immoral and unscrupulous, can only function behind a moral superstructure, and whoever regenerates this public mocality (by indignation, denunciation, etc.) spontaneously furthers the; order of capital, as did the Washington Post journalists.

But this is still only the formula of ideology, and when Bourdieu enunciates it, he takes "relation of force" to mean the truth of capitalist domination, and he denounces this relation of force as itself a scandal: he therefore occupies the same deterministic and moralistic position as the Washington Post journalists. He does the same job of purging and revivihg moral order, an order of truth wherein the genuine symbolic violence of the social order is engendered, well beyond all relations of force, which are only elements of its indifferent and shifting configuration in the moral and political consciousnesses of people.

All that capital asks of us is to receive it as rational or to combat it in the name of rationality, to receive it as moral or to combat it in the name of morality. For they are identical, meaning they can be read another way: before, the task was to dissimulate scandal; today, the task is to conceal the fact that there is none.

Watergate is not a scandal: this is- what must be said at all cost, for this is what everyone is concerned to conceal, this dissimulation masking a strengthening of morality, a moral panic as we approach the primal (mise-en-)scene of capital: its instantaneous cruelty; its incomprehensible ferocity; its fundamental immorality — these are what are scandalous, unaccountable for in that system of moral and economic equivalence which remains the axiom of leftist thought, from Enlightenment theory to communism. Capital doesn't give a damn about the idea of the contract which is imputed to it: it is a monstrous unprincipled undertaking, nothing more. Rather, it is "enlightened" thought which seeks to control capital by imposing rules on it. And all that recrimination which replaced revolutionary thought today comes down to reproaching capital for not following the rules of the game. "Power is unjust; its justice is a class justice; capital exploits us; etc." — as if capital were linked by a contract to the society it rules. It is the left which holds out the mirror of equivalence, hoping that capital will fall for this phantasmagoria of the social contract and furfill its obligation towards the whole of society (at the same time, no need for revolution: it is enough that capital accept the rational formula of exchange).

Capital in fact has never been linked by a contract to the society it dominates. It is a sorcery of the social relation, it is a challenge to society and should be responded to as such. It is not a scandal to be denounced according to moral and economic rationality, but — challenge to take up according to symbolic law.

Moebius: spiralling negativity

Hence Watergate was only a trap set by the system to catch its adversaries — a simulation of scandal to regenerative ends. This is embodied by the character called "Deep Throat," who was said to be a Republican grey eminence manipulating the leftist journalists in order to get rid of Nixon — and why not? All hypotheses are possible, although this one is superfluous: the work of the Right is done very well, and spontaneously, by the Left on its own. Besides, it would be naive to see an embittered good conscience at work here. For the Right itself also spontaneously does the work of the Left. All the hypotheses of manipulation are reversible in an endless whirligig. For manipulation is a floating causality where positivity and negativity engender and overlap with one another; where there is no longer any active or passive. It is by putting an arbitrary stop to this revolving causality that a principle of political reality can be saved. It is by the simulation of a conventional, restricted perspective field, where the premises and consequences of any act or event are calculable, that a political credibility can be maintained (including, of course, "objective" analysis, struggle, etc.) But if the entire cycle of any act or event is envisaged in a system where linear continuity and dialectical polarity no longer exist, in a field unhinged by simulation, then all determination evaporates, every act terminates at the end of the cycle having benefited everyone and been scattered in all directions.

Is any given bombing in Italy the work of leftist extremists; or of extreme right-wing provocation; or staged by centrists to bring every terrorist extreme into disrepute and to shore up its own failing power; or again, is it a police-inspired scenario in order to appeal to calls for public security? All this is equally true, and the search for proof- indeed the objectivity of the fact- does not check this vertigo of interpretation. We are in a logic of simulation which has nothing to do with a logic of facts and an order of reasons. Simulation is characterized by a precession of the model, of all models around the merest fact- the models come first, and their orbital (like the bomb) circulation constitutes the genuine magnetic field of events. Facts no longer have any trajectory of their own, they arise at the intersection of the models; a single fact may even be engendered by all the models at once. This anticipation, this precession, this short-circuit, this confusion of the fact with its model (no more divergence of meaning, no more dialectical polarity, no more negative electricity or implosion of poles) is what each time allows for all the possible interpretations, even the most contradictory — all are true, in the sense that their truth is exchangeable, in the image of the models from which they proceed, in a generalized cycle.

The communists attack the socialist party as though they wanted to shatter the union of the Left. They sanction the idea that their reticence stems from a more radical political exigency. In fact, it is because they don't want power. But do they not want it at this conjuncture because it is unfavorable for the Left in general, or because it is unfavorable for them within the union of the Left — or do they not want it by definition? When Berlinguer declares, "We mustn't be frightened of seeing the communists seize power in Italy," this means simultaneously:

1 That there is nothing to fear, since the communists, if they come to power, will change nothing in its fundamental capitalist mechanism.

2 That there isn't any risk of their ever coming to power (for the reason that they don't want to); and even if they do take it up, they will only ever wield it by proxy.

3 That in fact power, genuine power, no longer exists, and hence there is no risk of anybody seizing it or taking it over.

4 But more: 1, Berlinguer, am not frightened of seeing the communists seize power in Italy — which might appear evident, but not so evident, since:

5 It can also mean the contrary (no need for psychoanalysis here): I am frightened of seeing the communists seize power (and with good reason, even for a communist).

All the above is simultaneously true. This is the secret of a discourse that is no longer only ambiguous, as political discourses can be, but that conveys the impossibility of a determinate position of power, the impossibility of a determinate position of discourse. And this logic belongs to neither party. It traverses all discourses without their wanting it.

Who will unravel this imbroglio? The Gordian knot can at least be cut. As for the Moebius strip, if it is split in two, it results in an additional spiral without there being any possibility of resolving its surfaces (here the reversible continuity of hypotheses). Hades of simulation, which is no longer one of torture, but of the subtle, maleficent, elusive twisting of meaning4 — where even those condemned at Burgos are still a gik from Franco to Western democracy, which finds m them the occasion to regenerate its own flagging humamsm, and whose indignant protestation consolidates in return Franco's regime by uniting the Spanish masses against foreign intervention? Where is the truth in all that, when such collusions admirably knit together without their authors even knowing it?

The conjunction of the system and its extreme alternative like two ends of a curved mirror, the "vicious" curvature of a political space henceforth magnetized, circularized, reversibilized from right to lek a torsion that is like the evil demon of commutation, the whole system, the infinity of capital folded back over its own sur&ce: transfinite? And isn't it the same with desire and libidinal space? The conjunction of desire and value, of desire and capital. The conjunction of desire and the law; the ultimate joy and metamorphosis of the law (which is why it is so well received at the moment): only capital takes pleasure, Lyotard said, before coming to think that we take pleasure in capital. Overwhelming versatility of desire in Deleuze: an enigmatic reversal which brings this desire that is "revolutionary by itself, and as if involuntarily, in wanting what it wants," to want its own repression and to invest paranoid and fascist systems? A malign torsion which reduces this revolution of desire to the same fundamental ambiguity as the other, historical revolution.

All the referentials intermingle their discourses in a circular, Moebian compulsion. Not so long ago sex and work were savagely opposed terms: today both are dissolved into the same type of demand. Formerly the discourse on history took its force from opposing itself to the one on nature, the discourse on desire to the one on power: today they exchange their signifiers and their scenarios.

It would take too long to run through the whole range of operational negativity, of all those scenarios of deterrence which, like Watergate, try to revive a moribund principle by simulated scandal, phantasm, murder — a sort of hormonal treatment by negativity and crisis. It is always a question of proving the real by the imaginary; proving truth by scandal; proving the law by transgression; proving work by the strike; proving the system by crisis and capital by revolution; and for that matter proving ethnology by the dispossession of its object (the Tasaday). Without counting: proving theater by anti-theater; proving art by anti-art; proving pedagogy by anti-pedagogy; proving psychiatry by anti-psychiatry, etc., etc.

Everything is metamorphosed into its inverse in order to be perpetuated in its purged form. Every form of power, every situation speaks of itself by denial, in order to attempt to escape, by simulation of death, its real agony. Power can stage its own murder to rediscover a glimmer of existence and legitimacy. Thus with the American presidents: the Kennedys are murdered because they still have a political dimension. Others — Johnson, Nixon, Ford — only had a right to puppet attempts, to simulated murders. But they nevertheless needed that aura of an art)ficial menace to conceal that they were nothing other than mannequins of power. In olden days the king (also the god) had to die — that was his strength. Today he does his miserable utmost to pretend to die, so as to preserve the blessing of power. But even this is gone.

To seek new blood in its own death, to renew the cycle by the mirror of crisis, negativity and anti-power: this is the only alibi of every power, of every institution attempting to break the vicious circle of its irresponsibility and its fundamental nonexistence, of its deja-vu and its deja-mort.

Strategy of the real

Of the same order as the impossibility of rediscovering an absolute level of the real, is the impossibility of staging an illusion. Illusion is no longer possible, because the real is no longer possible. It is the whole political problem of the parody, of hypersimulation or offensive simulation, which is posed here.

For example: it would be interesting to see whether the repressive apparatus would not react more violently to a simulated hold up than to a real one? For a real hold up only upsets the order of things, the right of property, whereas a simulated hold up interferes with the very principle of reality. Transgression and violence are less serious, for they only contest the distribution of the real. Simulation is infinitely more dangerous since it always suggests, over and above its object, that law and order themselves might really be nothing more than a simulation.

But the difficulty is in proportion to the peril. How to feign a violation and put it to the test? Go and simulate a theft in a large department store: how do you convince the security guards that it is a simulated theft? There is no "objective" difference: the same gestures and the same signs exist as for a real theft; in fact the signs mclme neither to one side nor the other. As far as the established order is concerned, they are always of the order of the real.

Go and organize a fake hold up. Be sure to check that your weapons are harmless, and take the most trustworthy hostage, so that no life is in danger (otherwise you risk committing an offence). Demand ransom, and arrange it so that the operation creates the greatest commotion possible. In brief, stay close to the "truth", so as to test the reaction of the apparatus to a perfect simulation. But you won't succeed: the web of art)ficial signs will be inextricably mixed up with real elements (a police officer will really shoot on sight; a bank customer will faint and die of a heart attack; they will really turn the phoney ransom over to you). In brief, you will unwittingly find yourself immediately in the real, one of whose functions is precisely to devour every attempt at simulation, to reduce everything to some reality: that's exactly how the established order is, well before institutions and justice come into play.

In this impossibility of isolating the process of simulation must be seen the whole thrust of an order that can only see and understand m terms of some reality, because it can function nowhere else. The simulation of an offence, if it is patent, will either be punished more lightly (because it has no "consequences") or be punished as an offence to public office (for example, if one triggered off a police operation "for nothing") — but never as simulation, since it is precisely as such that no equivalence with the real is possible, and hence no repression either. The challenge of simulation is irreceivable by power. How can you punish the simulation of virtue? Yet as such it is as serious as the simulation of crime. Parody makes obedience and transgression equivalent, and that is the most serious crime, since it cancels out the difference upon which the law is based. The established order can do nothing against it, for the law is a second-order simulacrum whereas simulation is a third-order simulacrum, beyond true and false, beyond equivalences, beyond the rational distmctions upon which function all power and the entire social stratum. Hence, failing the real, it is here that we must aim at order.

This is why order always opts for the real. In a state of uncertainty, It always prefers this assumption (thus in the army they would rather take the simulator as a true madman). But this becomes more and more difficult, for it is practically impossible to isolate the process of simulation; through the force of inertia of the real which surrounds us, the inverse is also true (and this very reversibility forms part of the apparatus of simulation and of power's impotency): namely, it is now impossible to isolate the process of the real, or to prove the real.

Thus all hold ups, hijacks and the like are now as it were simulation hold ups, in the sense that they are inscribed in advance in the decoding and orchestration rituals of the media, anticipated in their mode of presentation and possible consequences. In brief, where they function as a set of signs dedicated exclusively to their recurrence as signs, and no longer to their "real" goal at all. But this does not make them inoffensive. On the contrary, it is as hyperreal events, no longer having any particular contents or aims, but indefinitely refracted by each other (for that matter like so-called historical events: strikes, demonstrations, crises, etc.5), that they are precisely unverifiable by an order which can only exert itself on the real and the rational, on ends and means: a referential order which can only dominate referentials, a determinate power which can only dominate a determined world, but which can do nothing about that indefinite recurrence of simulation, about that weightless nebula no longer obeying the law of gravitation of the real — power itself eventually breaking apart in this space and becomnig a simulation of power (disconnected from its aims and objectives, and dedicated to power effects and mass simulation).

The only weapon of power, its only strategy against this defection, is to reinject realness and referentiality everywhere, in order to convince us of the reality of the social, of the gravity of the economy and the finalities of production. For that purpose it prefers the discourse of crisis, but also — why not? — the discourse of desire. "Take your desires for reality!" can be understood as the ultimate slogan of power, for in a nonreferential world even the confusian of the reality principle with the desire principle is less dangerous than contagious hyperreality. One remains among principles, and there power is always right.

Hyperreality and simulation are deterrents of every principle and of every objective; they turn against power this deterrence which is so well utilized for a long time itself. For, finally, it was capital which was the first to feed throughout its history on the destruction of every referential, of every human goal, which shattered every ideal distinction between true and false, good and evil, in order to establish a radical law of equivalence and exchange, the iron law of its power. It was the first to practice deterrence, abstraction, disconnection, deterritorialization, etc.; and if it was capital which fostered reality, the reality principle, it was also the first to liquidate it in the extermination of every use value, of every real equivalence, of production and wealth, in the very sensation we have of the unreality of the stakes and the omnipotence of manipulation. Now, it is this very logic which is today hardened even more against it. And when it wants to fight this catastrophic spiral by secreting one last glimmer of reality, on which to found one last glimmer of power, it only multiplies the signs and accelerates the play of simulation.

As long as it was historically threatened by the real, power risked deterrence and simulation, disintegrating every contradiction by means of the production of equivalent signs. When it is threatened today by simulation (the threat of vanishing in the play of signs), power risks the real, risks crisis, it gambles on remanufacturing artificial, social, economic, -political stakes. This is a question of life or death for it. But it is too late.

Whence the characteristic hysteria of our time: the hysteria of production and reproduction of the real. The other production, that of goods and commodities, that of la belle epoque of political economy, no longer makes any sense of its own, and has not for some time. What society seeks through production, and overproduction, is the restoration of the real which escapes it. That is why contemporary "material" production is itself hyperreal. It retains all the features, the whole discourse of traditional production, but it is nothing more than its scaled-down refraction (thus the hyperrealists fasten in a striking resemblance a real from which has fled all meaning and charm, all the profundity and energy of representation). Thus the hyperrealism of simulation is expressed everywhere by the real's striking resemblance to itself.

Power, too, for some time now produces nothing but signs of its resemblance. And at the same time, another figure of power comes into play: that of a collective demand for signs of power — a holy union which forms around the disappearance of power. Everybody belongs to it more or less in fear of the collapse of the political. And in the end the game of power comes down to nothing more than the critical obsession with power: an obsession with its death; an obsession with its survival which becomes greater the more it disappears. When it has totally disappeared, logically we will be under the total spell of power — a haunting memory already foreshadowed everywhere, manifesting at one and the same time the satisfaction of having got rid of it (nobody wants it any more, everybody unloads it on others) and grieving its loss. Melancholy for societies without power: this has already given rise to fascism, that overdose of a powerful referential in a society which cannot terminate its mourning.

But we are still in the same boat: none of our societies know how to manage their mourning for the real, for power, for the social itself, which is implicated in this same breakdown. And it is by an art)ficial revitalization of all this that we try to escape it. Undoubtedly this will even end up in socialism. By an unforeseen twist of events and an irony which no longer belongs to history, it is through the death of the social that socialism will emerge — as it is through the death of God that religions emerge. A twisted coming, a perverse event, an unintelligible reversion to the logic of reason. As is the fact that power is no longer present except to conceal that there is none. A simulation which can go on indefinitely, since -unlike "true" power which is, or was, a structure, a strategy, a relation of force, a stake — this is nothing but the object of a social demand, and hence subject to the law of supply and demand, rather than to violence and death. Completely expunged from the political dimension, it is dependent, like any other commodity, on production and mass consumption. Its spark has disappeared; only the fiction of a political universe is saved.

Likewise with work. The spark of production, the violence of its stake no longer exists. Everybody still produces, and more and more, but work has subtly become something else: a need (as Marx ideally envisaged it, but not at all in the same sense), the object of a social "demand," like leisure, to which it is equivalent in the general run of life's options. A demand exactly proportional to the loss of stake in the work process.6 The same change in fortune as for power: the scenario of work is there to conceal the fact that the work-real, the production-real, has disappeared. And for that matter so has the strike-real too, which is no longer a stoppage of work, but its alternative pole in the ritual scansion of the social calendar. It is as if everyone has "occupied" their work place or work post, after declaring the strike, and resumed production, as is the custom in a "self-managed" job, in exactly the same terms as before, by declaring themselves (and virtually being) in a state of permanent strike.

This isn't a science-fiction dream: everywhere it is a question of a doubling of the work process. And of a double or locum for the strike process — strikes which are incorporated like obsolescence in objects, like crises in production. Then there are no longer any strikes or work, but both simultaneously, that is to say something else entirely: a wizardry of work, a trompe l'oeil, a scenodrama (not to say melodrama) of production, collective dramaturgy upon the empty stage of the social.

It is no longer a question of the ideology of work — of the traditional ethic that obscures the "real" labour process and the "objective" process of exploitation- but of the scenario of work. Likewise, it is no longer a question of the ideology of power, but of the scenario of power. Ideology only corresponds to a betrayal of reality by signs; simulation corresponds to a short-circuit of reality and to its reduplication by signs. It is always the aim of ideological analysis to restore the objective process; it is always a false problem to want to restore the truth beneath the simulacrum.

This is ultimately why power is so in accord with ideological discourses and discourses on ideology, for these are all discourses of truth — always good, even and especially if they are revolutionary, to counter the mortal blows of simulation.
Notes

Notes
1 Counterfeit and reproduction imply always an anguish, a disquieting foreignness: the uneasiness before the photograph, considered like a witch's trick — and more generally before any technical apparatus, which is always an apparatus of reproduction, is related by Benjamin to the uneasiness before the mirror-image. There is already sorcery at work in the mirror. But how much more so when this image can be detached from the mirror and be transported, stocked, reproduced at will (cf. The Student of Prague, where the devil detaches the image of the student from the mirror and harrasses him to death by the intermediary of this image). All reproduction implies therefore a kind of black magic, from the fact of being seduced by one's own image in the water, like Narcissus, to being haunted by the double and, who knows, to the mortal turning back of this vast technical apparatus secreted today by man as his own image (the narcissistic mirage of technique, McLuhan) and that returns to him, cancelled and distorted -endless reproduction of himself and his power to the limits of the world. Reproduction is diabolical in its very essence; it makes something fundamental vacillate. This has hardly changed for us: simulation (that we describe here as the operation of the code) is still and always the place of a gigantic enterprise of manipulation, of control and of death, just like the imitative object (primitive statuette, image of photo) always had as objective an operation of black image.

2 There is furthermore in Monod's book a flagrant contradiction, which reflects the ambiguity of all current science. His discourse concerns the code, that is the third-order simulacra, but it does so still according to "scientific" schemes of the second-order — objectiveness, "scientific" ethic of knowledge, science's principle of truth and transcendence. All things incompatible with the indeterminable models of the third-order.

3 "It's the feeble 'definition' of TV which condemns its spectator to rearranging the few points retained into a kind of abstract work. He participates suddenly in the creation of a reality that was only just presented to him in dots: the television watcher is in the position of an individual who is asked to project his own fantasies on inkblots that are not supposed to represent anything." TV as perpetual Rorshach test. And furthermore: "The TV image requires each instant that we 'close' the spaces in the mesh by a convulsive sensuous participation that is profoundly kinetic and tactile."

4 "The Medium is the Message" is the very slogan of the political economy of the sign, when it enters into the third-order simulation — the distinction between the medium and the message characterizes instead signification of the second-order.

5 The entire current "psychological" situation is characterized by this shortcircuit.

Doesn't emancipation of children and teenagers, once the initial phase of revolt is passed and once there has been established the principle of the right to emancipation, seem like the real emancipation of parents. And the young (students, high-schoolers, adolescents) seem to sense it in their always more insistent demand (though still as paradoxical) for the presence and advice of parents or of teachers. Alone at last, free and responsible, it seemed to them suddenly that other people possibly have absconded with their true liberty. Therefore, there is no question of "leaving them be." They're going to hassle them, not with any emotional or material spontaneous demand, but with an exigency that has been premeditated and corrected by an implicit oedipal knowledge. Hyperdependence (much greater than before) distored by irony and refusal, parody of libidinous original mechanisms. Demand without content, without referent, unjust)fied, but for all that all the more severe — naked demand with no possible answer. The contents of knowledge (teaching) or of affective relations, the pedagogical or familial referent having been eliminated in the act of emancipation, there remains only a demand linked to the empty form of the institution- perverse demand, and for that reason all the more obstinate. "Transferable" desire (that is to say non-referential, un-referential), desire that has been fed by lack, by the place left vacant, "liberated," desire captured in its own vertiginous image, desire of desire, as pure form, hyperreal. Deprived of symbolic substance, it doubles back upon itself, draws its energy from its own reflection and its disappointment with itself. This is literally today the "demand," and it is obvious that unlike the "classical" objective or transferable relations this one here is insoluble and interminable.

Simulated Oedipus.

Francois Richard: "Students asked to be seduced either bodily or verbally. But also they are aware of this and they play the game, ironically. 'Give us your knowledge, your presence, you have the word, speak, you are there for that.' Contestation certainly, but not only: the more authority is contested, vilified, the greater the need for authority as such. They play at Oedipus also, to deny it all the more vehemently. The 'teach', he's Daddy, they say; it's fun, you play at incest, malaise, the untouchable, at being a tease — in order to de-sexualize finally." Like one under analysis who asks for Oedipus back again, who tells the "oedipal" stories, who has the "analytical" dreams to satisfy the supposed request of the analyst, or to resist him? In the same way the student goes through his oedipal number, his seduction number, gets chummy, close, approaches, dominates- but this isn't desire, it's simulation. Oedipal psychodrama of simulation (neither less real nor less dramatic for all that). Very different from the real libidinal stakes of knowledge and power or even of a real mourning for the absence of same (as could have happened after 1968 in the universities). Now we've reached the phase of desperate reproduction, and where the stakes are nil, the simulacrum is maximal — exacerbated and parodied simulation at one and the same time- as interminable as psychoanalysis and for the same reasons.

The interminable psychoanalysis.

There is a whole chapter to add to the history of transference and countertransference: that of their liquidation by simulation, of the impossible psychoanalysis because it is itself, from now on, that produces and reproduces the unconscious as its institutional substance. Psychoanalysis dies also of the exchange of the signs of the unconscious. Just as revolution dies of the exchange of the critical signs of political economy. This short-circuit was well known to Freud in the form of the gift of the analytic dream, or with the "uninformed" patients, in the form of the gift of their analytic knowledge. But this was still interpreted as resistance, as detour, and did not put fundamentally into question either the process of analysis or the principle of transference. It is another thing entirely when the unconscious itself, the discourse of the unconscious becomes unfindable — according to the same scenario of simulative anticipation that we have seen at work on all levels with the machines of the third order. The analysis then can no longer end, it becomes logically and historically interminable, since it stabilizes on a puppetsubstance of reproduction, an unconscious programmed on demand — an impossible-to-break-through point around which the whole analysis is rearranged. The messages of the unconscious have been short-circuited by the psychoanalysis "medium." This is libidinal hyperrealism. To the famous categories of the real, the symbolic and the imaginary, it is going to be necessary to add the hyperreal, which captures and obstructs the functioning of the three orders.

6 Athenian democracy, much more advanced than our own, had reached the point where the vote was considered as payment for a service, after all other repressive solutions had been tried and found wanting in order to insure a quorum.

Baudrillard, Jean. "Simulacra and Simulations." Jean Baudrillard, Selected Writings, ed Mark Poster. Stanford University Press, 1998, pp.166-184. Available: www.stanford.edu/dept/HPS/Baudrillard/Baudrillard_Simulacra.html

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list of books

2008-12-26T18:57:00.005+05:30

Born in the USA by Billie Letts
Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen
The Girls by Lori Lansens
The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd
The Secret Between Us by Barbara Delinksy
Penumbra by Carolyn Haines
Domestic Affairs by Eileen Goudge
Between Sisters by Kristin Hannah
Firefly Lane by Kristin Hannah
Summer Sisters by Judy Blume
Drowning Ruth by Christina Schwarz
White Oleander by Janet Fitch
Icy Sparks by Gwyn Hyman Rubio
Just Desserts by Barbara Bretton
Bastard Out of Carolina by Dorothy Allison
Ellen Foster by Kaye Gibbons
Garden Spells by Sarah Addison Allen
The Sugar Queen by Darah Addison Allen
Family Tree by Barbara Delinksy
The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan
The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards
Paper Hearts by Debrah Williamson
Singing With the Top Down by Debrah Williamson
The Dog Who Spoke With Gods by Diane Jessup
The Coldest Winter Ever by Sister Souljah
The Friendship Cake by Lynne Hinton
Twisted Creek by Jodi Thomas
Rogue by Danielle Steel
No Time For Goodbye by Linwood Barclay
Down River by John Hart
The Darkest Evening of the Year by Dean Koontz
Snow Flower and the Secret fan by Lisa See
Peonu in Love by Lisa See
Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden
Suddenly by Barbara Delinksy
Mending Fences by Sherryl Woods

list of books

2008-12-26T18:57:00.002+05:30

Ted Dekker
-Adam (Very good. I could hardly put it down.)
-Thr3e
-House (co-written with Frank Peretti)
-Showdown
-The Circle Trilogy (Black, Red and White)
-Saint

Frank Peretti
-This Present Darkness
-Piercing the Darkness
-Hangman's Curse
-Nightmare Academy
-The Oath (my personal favorite)

Melody Carlson
-The True Color series (excellent for teens)
-Diary of a Teenage Girl series
-On This Day

Rene Gutteridge
-The Boo series (Boo, Boo Who, Boo Hiss, Boo Humbug)
-My Life as a Doormat

Lori Wick
-The Princess

Karen Kingsbury
-A Thousan Tomorrows
-Maggie's Miracle

Books

2008-12-18T17:05:00.000+05:30

FINE ARTS

Observations on gardening. Payne
Webb's essay on painting.
Pope's Iliad.
------ Odyssey.
Dryden's Virgil.
Milton's works. 2 v. Donaldson. Edinburgh 1762.
Hoole's Tasso.
Ossian with Blair's critcisms.
Telemachus by Dodsley
Capell's Shakespeare.
Dryden's pl;ays. 6 v.
Addison's plays.
Orway's plays. 3 v.
Rowe's works. 2 v.
Thompson's works. 4 v.
Young's works. 4 v.
Home's plays.
Mallet's works. 3 v.
Mason's poetical works.
Terence. Eng.
Moliere. Eng.
Farquhar's plays. 2 v.
Varbrugh's plays. 2 v.
Steele's plays.
Congreve's works. 3 v.
Garric's dramatic works. 2 v.
Foote's dramatic works. 2 v.
Rousseau's Eloisa. Eng. 4 v.
------- Emilius and Sophia. Eng. 4 v.
Marmontel's moral tales. Eng. 2 v.
Gil Blas. by Smollett.
Don Quixot. by Smollett 4 v.
David Simple. 2 v.
Roderic Random. by Smollett. 2 v.
Peregrine Pickle. by Smollett. 4 v.
Launcelot Graves. by Smollett
Adventures of a guinea. by Smollett. 2 v.
Pamela. by Richardson. 4 v.
Clarissa. by Richardson. 8 v.
Grandison. by Richardson. 7 v.
Fool of quality. by Richardson. 3 v.
Feilding's works. 12 v.
Constantia. by Langhorne. 2 v.
Solyman and Almena. by Langhorne.
Belle assemblee. 4 v.
Vicar of Wakefield. 2 v. by Dr. Goldsmith.
Sidney Bidulph. 5 v.
Lady Julia Mandeville. 2 v.
Almoran and Hamet. 2 v.
Tristam Shandy. 9 v.
Sentimental journey. 2 v.
Fragments of antient poetry. Edinburgh.
Percy's Runic poems.
Percy's reliques of antient English poetry. 3 v.
Percy's Han Kiou Chouan. 4 v.
Percy's Miscellaneopus Chinese peices. 2 v.
Chaucer.
Spencer. 6 v.
Waller's poems.
Dodsley's collection of poems. 6 v.
Pearch's collection of poems. 4 v.
Gray's works.
Ogilvie's poems.
Prior's poems. 2 v. Foulis.
Gay's works. Foulis.
Shenstones works. 2 v.
Dryden's works. 4 v. Foulis.
Pope's works. by Warburton.
Churchill's poems. 4 v.
Hudibrass.
Swift's works. 21 v.
Swift's literary correspondence. 3 v.
Spectator. 9 v.
Tatler. 5 v.
Guardian. 2 v.
Freeholder.
Ld. Lyttleton's Persian letters.

CRITICISM OF THE FINE ARTS

Ld. Kaim's elements of criticism. 2 v.
Burke on the sublime and beautiful.
Hogarth's analysis of beatuy.
Reid on the human mind.
Smith's theory of moral sentiments.
Johnson's dictionary. 2 v.
Capell's proclusions.

POLITICKS, TRADE.

Montesquieu's spirit of the laws. 2 v.
Locke on government.
Sidney on gonvernment.
Marmontel's Belisarius. Eng.
Ld. Bolingbroke's political works. 5 v.
Montesquieu's rise & fall of the Roman government.
Steuart's Political oeconomy. 2 v.
Petty's Political arithmetic.

RELIGION.

Locke's conduct of the mind in search of truth.
Xenophon's memoirs of Socrates, by Feilding.
Epictetus. by Mrs. Carter. 2 v.
Antoninus by Collins.
Seneca. by L'Estrange.
Cicero's Offices. by Guthrie.
Cicero's Tusculan questions. Eng.
Ld. Bolingbroke's Philosophical works. 5 v.
Hume's essays. 4 v.
Ld. Kaim's Natural religion.
Philosophical survey of Nature.
Oeconomy of human life.
Sterne's sermons. 7 v.
Sherlock on death.
Sherlock on a future state.

LAW.

Ld. Kaim's Principles of equity. fol.
Blackstones Commentaries. 4 v.
Cuningham's Law Dictionary. 2 v.

HISTORY. ANTIENT.

Bible.
Rollin's Antient history. Eng. 13 v.
Stanyan's Graecian history. 2 v.
Livy (the late translation)
Sallust by Gordon.
Tacitus by Gordon.
Caesar by Bladen.
Josephus. Eng.
Vertot's Revolution of Rome. Eng.
Plutarch's Lives by Langhorne. 6 v.
Bayle's Dictionary. 5 v.
Jeffrey's Historical & Chronological Chart.

HISTORY. MODERN.

Robertson's History of Charles the Vth. 3 v.
Bossuet's history of France. 4 v.
Davila. by Fameworth. 2 v.
Hume's history of England. 8 v.
Clarendon's history of the rebellion. 6 v.
Robertson's history of Scotland. 2 v.
Keith's history of Virginia.
Stith's history of Virginia.

NATURAL PHILOSOPHY. NATURAL HISTORY ETC.

Nature displayed. Eng. 7 v.
Franklin on Electricity.
Macqueer's elements of Chemistry. 2 v.
Home's principles of agriculture.
Tull's horse-hoeing husbandry.
Duhamel's husbandry.
Millar's Gardener's diet.
Buffon's natural history. Eng.
A compendium of Physic & Surgery. Nourse.
Addison's travels. 2 v.
Anson's voiage.
Thompson's travels. 2 v.
Lady M. W. Montague's letters. 3 v.

MISCELLANEOUS

Ld. Lyttleton's dialogues of the dead.
Fenelon's dialogues of the dead. Eng.
Voltaire's works. Eng.
Locke on Education.
Owen's Dict. of arts & sciences. 4 v.

Nice Article about Love

2008-12-17T18:05:00.000+05:30

-by Swami Vivekananda

I once had a friend who grew to be very close to me.

Once when we were sitting at the edge of a swimming pool, she filled the
palm of her hand with some water and held it before me, and said this: "You
see this water carefully contained on my hand? It symbolizes Love."

This was how I saw it: As long as you keep your hand caringly open and allow
it to remain there, it will always be there. However, if you attempt to
close your fingers round it and try to posses it, it will spill through the
first cracks it finds

This is the greatest mistake that people do when they meet love...they try
to posses it, they demand, they expect... and just like the water spilling
out of your hand, love will retrieve from you .

For love is meant to be free, you cannot change its nature. If there are
people you love, allow them to be free beings.

Give and don't expect.
Advise, but don't order.
Ask, but never demand.

It might sound simple, but it is a lesson that may take a lifetime to truly
practice. It is the secret to true love. To truly practice it, you must
sincerely feel no expectations from those who you love, and yet an
unconditional caring."

Passing thought... Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take;
but by the moments that take our breath away.....

Life is beautiful, Live it!!!!

.

How the company views its employees. (HE vs SHE)

2008-12-14T12:13:00.001+05:30

1. The family picture is on HIS desk.
Ah, a solid, responsible family man.

The family picture is on HER desk.
Umm, her family will come before her career.

*********

2. HIS desk is cluttered.
He's obviously a hard worker and a busy man.

HER desk is cluttered.
She's obviously a disorganised scatterbrain

*********

3. HE is talking with his co-workers.
He must be discussing the latest deal

SHE is talking with her co-workers.
She must be gossiping.

*********

4. HE's not at his desk. He must be at a meeting.

SHE's not at her desk. She must be in the ladies' room.

*********

5. HE's not in the office. He's meeting with customers.

SHE's not in the office. She must be out shopping.

*********

6. HE's having lunch with the boss. He's on his way up.

SHE's having lunch with the boss. They must be having an affair.

*********

7. The boss criticised HIM. He'll improve his performance.

The boss criticized HER. She'll be very upset.

*********

8. HE got an unfair deal. Did he get angry?

SHE got an unfair deal. Did she cry?

*********

9. HE's going on a business trip. It's good for his career.

SHE's going on a business trip. What does her husband say?

*********

10 . HE's leaving for a better job.
He knows how to recognise a good opportunity.

SHE's leaving for a better job.
Women are not dependable

HOW HAPPY IS LIFE WITHOUT A GIRLFRIEND

2008-12-14T12:04:00.000+05:30

Reasons why LIFE without a Girl Friend is cool

******************

1. You can stare at any Girl.......

*************

2. You don't have to spend money on her.

*************

3. You won't get boring result in ur board papers.

*************

4. No girlfriend, no emotional blackmailing.

*************

5. If u don't have a girlfriend, she can't dump u.

*************

6. Having a girlfriend is hot, not having a girlfriend is automatically cool, and every one loves to be a cool guy.

*************

7. This can be more to life than just waiting for the bloody phone to ring.

*************

8. You won't have to tolerate someone else defining, "right" and "wrong" for u.

*************

9. Girlfriend can get so possessive that you can't do anything according ur wishes anymore.

*************

10. You can buy gifts for mom, dad, sis or grandpa instead of a girlfriend and have a happier family life.

*************

11. You won't have to waste paper writing love letters. No more endless waiting for ur date to arrive at some weird shop place.

*************

12. You can have more friends, as u will have more time for them.

*************

13. You wont have to see boring love stories instead of sports.

*************

14. You wont have to tell lie to anybody and, therefore, u'll sin less.

*************

15. You can have good night's sleep-no need to dream about her.

*************

16. You wont have to fight over having a 'special' friend with ur folks.

*************

17. No nonstop nonsense.

*************

18. You wont have drown in the pool of her tears.

*************

19. No tension.

*************

20. You can be "urself"

*************

21. You wont have to hide your telephone bills.....

*************

Junior

2008-12-14T12:02:00.001+05:30

A woman wanted to reach her husband on his mobile phone but discovered that she was out of credit, She instructed her son to use his own phone to pass across an urgent message to his daddy who was on site.

After junior had called, he got back to mummy to inform her that there was a lady that picked up daddy's phone the three times he tried reaching dad on the mobile.

Women!!

She waited impatiently for her husband to return from work and upon seeing him in the driveway, she rushed out and gave him a tight slap, and she slapped him again, for good measure.

People from the neighborhood rushed around to find out what the cause of the commotion was.

The woman asked junior to tell everybody what the lady said to him when he called.

Junior said

"The subscriber you have dialed is not available at present. Please Try Again Later"...

Marvelous answer

2008-12-14T11:40:00.000+05:30

Marvelous answer

A mechanic was removing the cylinder heads from the motor of a car when he spotted the famous heart surgeon in his shop, who was standing off to the side, waiting for the service manager to come to take a look at his car.

The mechanic shouted across the garage,"Hello Doctor!! Please come over here for a minute."

The famous surgeon, a bit surprised, walked over to the mechanic.

The mechanic straightened up, wiped his hands on a rag and asked argumentatively, "So doctor, look at this. I also open hearts, take valves out, grind 'em, put in new parts, and when I finish this will work as a new one. So how come you get the big money, when you and me is doing basically the same work? "

The doctor leaned over and whispered to the mechanic.....

.
.
.
.
.
.

He said: "Try to do it when the engine is running".

Sleeping Murder

2008-12-09T13:00:00.002+05:30

Agatha Christie - Sleeping Murder
Miss Marple's Last Case Complete and Unabridged
1 A HOUSE
Gwenda Reed stood, shivering a little, on the quayside.
The docks and the custom sheds and all of England that she could see, were gently waving up and down.
And it was in that moment that she made her decision—the decision that was to lead to such very
momentous events.
She wouldn't go by the boat train to London as she had planned.
After all, why should she? No one was waiting for her, nobody expected her. She had only just got off
that heaving creaking boat (it had been an exceptionally rough three days through the Bay and up to
Plymouth) and the last thing she wanted was to get into a heaving swaying train.
She would go to a hotel, a nice firm steady hotel standing on good solid ground. And she would get into
a nice steady bed that didn't creak and roll. And she would go to sleep, and the next morning -- why, of
course -- what a splendid idea! She would hire a car and she would drive slowly and without hurrying
herself all through the South of England looking about for a house -- a nice house -- the house that she
and Giles had planned she should find.
Yes, that was a splendid idea.
In that way she would see something of England -- of the England that Giles had told her about and
which she had never seen, although, like most New Zealanders, she called it Home. At the moment,
England was not looking particularly attractive.
It was a grey day with rain imminent and a sharp irritating wind blowing. Plymouth, Gwenda thought, as
she moved forward obediently in the queue for Passports and Customs, was probably not the best of
England.
On the following morning, however, her feelings were entirely different. The sun was shining. The view
from her window was attractive. And the universe in general was no longer waving and wobbling. It had
steadied down. This was England at last and here she was, Gwenda Reed, young married woman of
twenty-one, on her travels. Giles's return to England was uncertain.
He might follow her in a few weeks. It might be as long as six months.
His suggestion had been that Gwenda should precede him to England and should look about for a
suitable house. They both thought it would be nice to have, somewhere, a permanency. Giles's job would
always entail a certain amount of travelling.
Sometimes Gwenda would come too, sometimes the conditions would not be suitable.
But they both liked the idea of having a home -- some place of their very own.
Giles had inherited some furniture from an aunt recently, so that everything combined to make the idea a

THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER

2008-12-09T13:00:00.001+05:30

Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
1
Read a Story
That Will
Change Your Life!
The One Minute Manager is an easily read story which quickly shows you three
very practical management techniques. As the story unfolds, you will discover several
studies in medicine and the behavioral sciences which help you to understand why these
apparently simple methods work so well with so many people. By the book’s end you
will also know how to apply them to your own situation.
The book is brief, the language is simple, and best of all ... it works!
That’s why The One Minute Manager has become America’s national sensation,
featured in People magazine, and on The Today Show, The Merv Griffin Show, and
other network television programs.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
2
Books by Kenneth H. Blanchard, Ph.D.
MANAGEMENT OF ORGANIZATIONAL BEHAVIOR: UTILIZING HUMAN RESOURCES
(with Paul Hersey).
ORGANIZATIONAL CHANGE THROUGH EFFECTIVE LEADERSHIP (with Robert H. Guest and
Paul Hersey).
THE FAMILY GAME: A SITUATIONAL APPROACH TO EFFECTIVE PARENTING (with Paul
Hersey).
PUTTING THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER TO WORK (with Robert Lorber, Ph.D.).
Books by Spencer Johnson, M.D.
THE ONE MINUTE FATHER
THE ONE MINUTE MOTHER
THE PRECIOUS PRESENT: THE GIFT THAT MAKES A PERSON HAPPY FOREVER
THE VALUETALE SERIES:
THE VALUE OF BELIEVING IN YOURSELF, The Story of Louts Pasteur
THE VALUE OF PATIENCE, The Story of the Wright Brothers
THE VALUE OF KINDNESS, The Story of Elizabeth Fry
THE VALUE OF HUMOR, The Story of Will Rogers
THE VALUE OF COURAGE, The Story of Jackie Robinson
THE VALUE OF CURIOSITY, The Story of Christopher Columbus
THE VALUE OF IMAGINATION, The Story of Charles Dickens
THE VALUE OF SAVING, The Story of Benjamin Franklin
THE VALUE OF SHARING, The Story of the Mayo Brothers
THE VALUE OF HONESTY, The Story of Confucius
THE VALUE OF UNDERSTANDING, The Story of Margaret Mead
THE VALUE OF FANTASY, The Story of Hans Christian Anderson
Most Berkley books are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases or sales promotions,
premiums, fund raising, or educational use. Special books or book excerpts can also be created to fit
specific needs.
For details, write or telephone Special Markets, The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New
York, New York 10016; (212) 951-8800.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
3
“All managers and executives can easily use The One Minute Manager to build a more
efficient organization. Those who have tried it, like it.”
—ROY ANDERSON, Chairman of the
Board & Chief Executive Officer,
Lockheed Corp.
“Not since Up the Organization have I read such a straightforward, innovative book as
The One Minute Manager. Should be command reading for every restauranteur and
hotelier in the country.”
—DONALD I. SMITH, Director,
School of Hotel, Restaurant and
Institutional Management,
College of Business,
Michigan State University
“Quite simply, The One Minute Manager can help any manager to assist his people to
become peak performers. I include it in all my work with American corporations seeking
to improve productivity, profitability and performance.”
—CHARLES A. GARFIELD, Ph.D.,
President, PEAK Performance Center;
Clinical Professor,
University of California, Berkeley
“In government, criticizing performance has become the dominant management
technique. The One Minute Manager’s approach of catching someone doing something
right would be far more effective.”
—DAVID C. JONES, General,
U.S.A.E, Retired,
Former Chairman,
The Joint Chiefs of Staff
“The best management book I’ve read. I couldn’t put it down. I’ve bought copies for all
my key managers, and now they are doing the same for their people.”
—JERE W. THOMPSON, President
The Southland Corporation
7-Eleven Convenience Stores
“Finally there is a short, readable, practical guide to effective management! We have
more than a thousand copies of The One Minute Manager available to our managers.”
—ERNEST E. RENAUD, President
& Chief Executive Officer,
Jerrico, Inc.
“I believe The One Minute Manager should be made ‘standard issue’ at all management
development training programs from new managers’ school to advanced management
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
4
training. It embodies (in an easy-to-read form) the fundamental principles of people
management we are trying to instill in our management team. I have made it required
reading for all our managers.”
—DAVID HANNA, President
GRiD Systems Corporation
“Buying copies of The One Minute Manager is one of the best investments I’ve made in
myself and in our managers.”
—LOUIS P. NEEB, President
Fast Food Division, W. R. Grace & Co.
(formerly Chairman of the Board,
Burger King Corp.)
“Should you apply one-minute management? Yes!”
—WORKING WOMAN
“The One Minute Manager ... don’t miss it!”
—MERV GRIFFIN
“Our managers are using The One Minute Manager’s practical method in our ‘Yellow
Pages’ operation all over the world. There is no doubt about it—it works!”
—R. W. BUTLER, President,
GTE Directories Corporation
“Our whole management has profited from reading The One Minute Manager.”
—MICHAEL D. ROSE, President
& Chief Executive Officer,
Holiday Inn, Inc.
“I gave copies to my boss, my subordinates, other refinery managers, and even to my
wife, our close friends and our clergy. It has that kind of broad appeal and it’s that good!”
—ROBERT W. DAVIS, President
Chevron Chemical Company
“This book shows us how to manage our encounters with people in such a way that
everyone benefits! Very enlightening!”
—EARL NIGHTINGALE
Radio commentator,
OUR CHANGING WORLD
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
5
This Berkley book contains the complete
text of the original hardcover edition.
THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with
William Morrow and Company, Inc.
PRINTING HISTORY
William Morrow and Company edition published 1982
Berkley trade paperback edition / October 1983
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1981, 1982 by Blanchard Family Partnership
and Candle Communications Corporation.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,
by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: William Morrow and Company, Inc.
105 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
ISBN: 0-425-09847-8
A BERKLEY BOOK ® TM 757,375
Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
The name “BERKLEY” and the “B” logo
are trademarks belonging to Berkley Publishing Corporation.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
50 49 48
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
6
The
One
Minute
Manager
Kenneth Blanchard, Ph.D.
Spencer Johnson, M.D.
BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
7
Contents
The Search
The One Minute Manager
The First Secret: One Minute Goals
One Minute Goals: Summary
The Second Secret: One Minute Praisings
One Minute Praisings: Summary
The Appraisal
The Third Secret: One Minute Reprimands
One Minute Reprimands: Summary
The One Minute Manager Explains
Why One Minute Goals Work
Why One Minute Praisings Work
Why One Minute Reprimands Work
The New One Minute Manager
A Gift to Yourself
A Gift to Others
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
8
The Symbol
The One Minute Manager’s symbol—a one minute readout
from the face of a modern digital watch—is intended to
remind each of us to take a minute out of our day to look
into the faces of the people we manage. And to realize that
they are our most important resources.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
9
Introduction
In this brief story, we present you with a great deal of what we have learned from our
studies in medicine and in the behavioral sciences about how people work best with other
people.
By “best,” we mean how people produce valuable results, and feel good about
themselves, the organization and the other people with whom they work.
This allegory, The One Minute Manager, is a simple compilation of what many wise
people have taught us and what we have learned ourselves. We recognize the importance
of these sources of wisdom. We also realize that the people who work with you as their
manager will look to you as one of their sources of wisdom.
We trust, therefore, that you will take the practical knowledge you gain from this book
and use it in your daily management. For as the ancient sage, Confucius, advises each of
us: “The essence of knowledge is, having it, to use it.”
We hope you enjoy using what you learn from The One Minute Manager and that, as a
result, you and the people you work with will enjoy healthier, happier and more
productive lives.
Kenneth Blanchard, Ph.D.
Spencer Johnson, M.D.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
10
The Search
ONCE there was a bright young man who was looking for an effective manager.
He wanted to work for one. He wanted to become one.
His search had taken him over many years to the far corners of the world.
He had been in small towns and in the capitals of powerful nations.
He had spoken with many managers: with government administrators and military
officers, construction superintendents and corporate executives, university presidents and
shop foremen, utility supervisors and foundation directors, with the managers of shops
and stores, of restaurants, banks and hotels, with men and women—young and old.
He had gone into every kind of office, large and small, luxurious and sparse, with
windows and without.
He was beginning to see the full spectrum of how people manage people.
But he wasn’t always pleased with what he saw.
He had seen many “tough” managers whose organizations seemed to win while their
people lost.
Some of their superiors thought they were good managers.
Many of their subordinates thought otherwise.
As the man sat in each of these “tough people’s” offices, he asked, “What kind of a
manager would you say you are?”
Their answers varied only slightly.
“I’m an autocratic manager—I keep on top of the situation,” he was told. “A bottomline
manager.” “Hard-nosed.” “Realistic.” “Profit-minded.”
He heard the pride in their voices and their interest in results.
The man also met many “nice” managers whose people seemed to win while their
organizations lost.
Some of the people who reported to them thought they were good managers.
Those to whom they reported had their doubts.
As the man sat and listened to these “nice” people answer the same question, he heard,
“I’m a democratic manager.” “Participative.” “Supportive.” “Considerate.”
“Humanistic.”
He heard the pride in their voices and their interest in people.
But he was disturbed.
It was as though most managers in the world were primarily interested either in results
or in people.
The managers who were interested in results often seemed to be labeled “autocratic,”
while the managers interested in people were often labeled “democratic.”
The young man thought each of these managers—the “tough” autocrat and the “nice”
democrat—were only partially effective. “It’s like being half a manager,” he thought.
He returned home tired and discouraged.
He might have given up his search long ago, but he had one great advantage. He knew
exactly what he was looking for.
“Effective managers,” he thought, “manage themselves and the people they work with
so that both the organization and the people profit from their presence.”
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
11
The young man had looked everywhere for an effective manager but had found only a
few. The few he did find would not share their secrets with him. He began to think maybe
he would never find out what really made an effective manager tick.
Then he began hearing marvelous stories about a special manager who lived,
ironically, in a nearby town. He heard that people liked to work for this man and that they
produced great results together. The young man wondered if the stories were really true
and, if so, whether this manager would be willing to share his secrets with him.
Curious, he telephoned the special manager’s secretary for an appointment. The
secretary put him through immediately.
The young man asked this special manager when he could see him. He heard, “Any
time this week is fine, except Wednesday morning. You pick the time.”
The young man quietly chuckled because this supposedly marvelous manager sounded
like a “kook” to him. What kind of manager had that kind of time available? But the
young man was fascinated. He went to see him.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
12
The One Minute Manager
WHEN the young man arrived at the manager’s office, he found him standing and
looking out of the window. When the young man coughed, the manager turned and
smiled. He invited the young man to sit down and asked, “What can I do for you?”
The young man said, “I’d like to ask you some questions about how you manage
people.”
The manager willingly said, “Fire away.”
“Well, to begin with, do you hold regularly scheduled meetings with your
subordinates?”
“Yes, I do—once a week on Wednesdays from 9:00 to 11:00. That’s why I couldn’t
see you then,” responded the manager.
“What do you do at those meetings?” probed the young man.
“I listen while my people review and analyze what they accomplished last week, the
problems they had, and what still needs to be accomplished. Then we develop plans and
strategies for the next week.”
“Are the decisions made at those meetings binding on both you and your people?”
questioned the young man.
“Of course they are,” insisted the manager. “What would be the point of having the
meeting if they weren’t?”
“Then you are a participative manager, aren’t you?” asked the young man.
“On the contrary,” insisted the manager, “I don’t believe in participating in any of my
people’s decision-making.”
“Then what is the purpose of your meetings?”
“I already told you that,” he said. “Please, young man, do not ask me to repeat myself.
It is a waste of my time and yours.
“We’re here to get results,” the manager continued. “The purpose of this organization
is efficiency. By being organized we are a great deal more productive.”
“Oh, so you’re aware of the need for productivity. Then you’re more results-oriented
than people-oriented,” the young man suggested.
“No!” the manager resounded, startling his visitor. “I hear that all too often.” He got to
his feet and began to walk about. “How on earth can I get results if it’s not through
people? I care about people and results. They go hand in hand.
“Here, young man, look at this.” The manager handed his visitor a plaque. “I keep it
on my desk to remind me of a practical truth.”
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
13
ê
People Who Feel
Good About
Themselves
Produce
Good Results
ê
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
14
As the young man looked at the plaque, the manager said, “Think about yourself.
When do you work best? Is it when you feel good about yourself? Or when you don’t?”
The young man nodded as he began to see the obvious. “I get more done when I’m
feeling good about myself,” he responded.
“Of course you do,” the manager agreed. “And so does everyone else.”
The young man raised his index finger with new-found insight. “So,” he said, “helping
people to feel good about themselves is a key to getting more done.”
“Yes,” the manager agreed. “However, remember productivity is more than just the
quantity of work done. It is also the quality.” He walked over to the window and said,
“Come over here, young man.”
He pointed to the traffic below and asked, “Do you see how many foreign cars there
are on the road?”
The young man looked out at the real world, and said, “I see more of them every day.
And I guess that’s because they’re more economical and they last longer.”
The manager nodded reluctantly and said “Exactly. So why do you think people are
buying foreign cars? Because American manufacturers did not make enough cars? Or,”
the manager said without interrupting, “because they did not make the quality car the
American public really wanted?
“Now that I think of it,” the young man answered, “it’s a question of quality and
quantity.”
“Of course,” the manager added. “Quality is simply giving people the product or
service they really want and need.”
The older man stood at the window lost in his thoughts. He could remember, not so
long ago, when his country provided the technology that helped to rebuild Europe and
Asia. It still amazed him that America had fallen so far behind in productivity.
The young man broke the manager’s concentration. “I’m reminded of an ad I saw on
television,” the visitor volunteered. “It showed the name of the foreign car, and over it
came the words If you’re going to take out a long-term car loan, don’t buy a short-term
car.”
The manager turned and said quietly, “I’m afraid that’s a rather good summary. And
that’s the whole point. Productivity is both quantity and quality.”
The manager and his visitor began to walk back towards the couch. “And frankly, the
best way to achieve both of these results is through people.”
The young man’s interest increased. As he sat down, he asked, “Well, you’ve already
said that you’re not a participative manager. Just how would you describe yourself?”
“That’s easy,” he responded without hesitation. “I’m a One Minute Manager.”
The young man’s face showed surprise. He’d never heard of a One Minute Manager.
“You’re a what?”
The manager laughed and said, “I’m a One Minute Manager. I call myself that
because it takes very little time for me to get very big results from people.”
Although the young man had spoken with many managers, he had never heard one
talk like this. It was hard to believe. A One Minute Manager—someone who gets good
results without taking much time.
Seeing the doubt on his face the manager said, “You don’t believe me, do you? You
don’t believe that I’m a One Minute Manager.”
“I must admit it’s hard for me even to imagine,” the young man responded.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
15
The manager laughed and said, “Listen, you’d better talk to my people if you really
want to know what kind of manager I am.”
The manager leaned over and spoke into the office intercom. His secretary, Ms.
Metcalfe, came in moments later and handed the young man a sheet of paper.
“Those are the names, positions and phone numbers of the six people who report to
me,” the One Minute Manager explained.
“Which ones should I talk to?” the young man asked.
“That’s your decision,” the manager responded. “Pick any name. Talk to any one of
them or all of them.”
“Well, I mean who should I start with?”
“I already told you, I don’t make decisions for other people,” the manager said firmly.
“Make that decision yourself.” He stood up and walked his visitor towards the door.
“You have asked me, not once, but twice, to make a simple decision for you. Frankly,
young man, I find that annoying. Do not ask me to repeat myself. Either pick a name and
get started, or take your search for effective management elsewhere.”
The visitor was stunned. He was uncomfortable, very uncomfortable. A moment of
embarrassed silence seemed like an eternity.
Then the One Minute Manager looked the young man in the eye and said, “You want
to know about managing people, and I admire that.” He shook his visitor’s hand.
“If you have any questions after talking to some of my people,” he said warmly,
“come back and see me. I appreciate your interest and desire to learn how to manage. I
would, in fact, like to give you the concept of the One Minute Manager as a gift.
Someone gave it to me once and it’s made all the difference to me. I want you to
understand it fully. If you like it, you may want to become a One Minute Manager
yourself someday.”
“Thank you,” the young man managed.
He left the manager’s office somewhat dumbfounded. As he passed the secretary she
said understandingly, “I can see from your dazed look that you’ve already experienced
our One Minute Manager.”
The young man said very slowly, still trying to figure things out, “I guess I have.”
“Maybe I can help you,” Ms. Metcalfe said. “I’ve phoned the six people who report to
him. Five of them are here and they have each agreed to see you. You may be better able
to understand our ‘One Minute Manager’ after you’ve spoken with them.”
The young man thanked her, looked over the list and decided to talk to three of them:
Mr. Trenell, Mr. Levy and Ms. Brown.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
16
The First Secret: One Minute Goals
WHEN the young man arrived at Trenell’s office, he found a middle-aged man smiling at
him. “Well, you’ve been to see the ‘ole man.’ He’s quite a guy, isn’t he?”
“He seems that way,” the young man responded.
“Did he tell you about being a One Minute Manager?”
“He sure did. It’s not true, is it?” asked the young man.
“You’d better believe it is. I hardly ever see him.”
“You mean you never get any help from him?” puzzled the young man.
“Essentially very little, although he does spend some time with me at the beginning of
a new task or responsibility. That’s when he does One Minute Goal Setting.”
“One Minute Goal Setting. What’s that?” said the young man. “He told me he was a
One Minute Manager, but he didn’t say anything about One Minute Goal Setting.”
“That’s the first of the three secrets to One Minute Management,” Trenell answered.
“Three secrets?” the young man asked, wanting to know more.
“Yes,” said Trenell. “One Minute Goal Setting is the first one and the foundation for
One Minute Management. You see, in most organizations when you ask people what they
do and then ask their boss, all too often you get two different lists. In fact, in some
organizations I’ve worked in, any relationship between what I thought my job
responsibilities were and what my boss thought they were, was purely coincidental. And
then I would get in trouble for not doing something I didn’t even think was my job.”
“Does that ever happen here?” asked the young man.
“No!” Trenell said. “It never happens here. The One Minute Manager always makes it
clear what our responsibilities are and what we are being held accountable for.”
“Just how does he do that?” the young man wanted to know.
“Efficiently,” Trenell said with a smile.
Trenell began to explain. “Once he has told me what needs to be done or we have
agreed on what needs to be done, then each goal is recorded on no more than a single
page. The One Minute Manager feels that a goal, and its performance standard, should
take no more than 250 words to express. He insists that anyone be able to read it within a
minute. He keeps a copy and I keep a copy so everything is clear and so we can both
periodically check the progress.
“Do you have these one-page statements for every goal?”
“Yes,” answered Trenell.
“Well, wouldn’t there be a lot of these one-page statements for each person?”
“No, there really aren’t,” Trenell insisted. “The old man believes in the 80-20 goalsetting
rule. That is, 80% of your really important results will come from 20% of your
goals. So we only do One Minute Goal Setting on that 20%, that is, our key areas of
responsibility—maybe three to six goals in all. Of course, in the event a special project
comes up, we set special One Minute Goals.”
“Interesting,” the young man commented. “I think I understand the importance of One
Minute Goal Setting. It sounds like a philosophy of ‘no surprises’—everyone knows what
is expected from the beginning.”
“Exactly,” Trenell nodded.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
17
“So is One Minute Goal Setting just understanding what your responsibilities are?” the
young man asked.
“No. Once we know what our job is, the manager always makes sure we know what
good performance is. In other words, performance standards are clear. He shows us what
he expects.”
“How does he do that—show you what he expects?” asked the young man.
“Let me give you an example,” Trenell suggested.
“One of my One Minute Goals was this: Identify performance problems and come up
with solutions which, when implemented, will turn the situation around.
“When I first came to work here I spotted a problem that needed to be solved, but I
didn’t know what to do. So I called the One Minute Manager. When he answered the
phone, I said, Sir, I have a problem. Before I could get another word out, he said, Good!
That’s what you’ve been hired to solve. Then there was a dead silence on the other end of
the phone.
“I didn’t know what to do. The silence was deafening. I eventually stuttered out, But,
but, Sir, I don’t know how to solve this problem.
“Trenell, he said, one of your goals for the future is for you to identify and solve your
own problems. But since you are new, come on up and we’ll talk.
“When I got up there, he said, Tell me, Trenell, what your problem is—but put it in
behavioral terms.
“Behavioral terms? I echoed. What do you mean by behavioral terms?
“I mean, the manager explained to me, that I do not want to hear about only attitudes
or feelings. Tell me what is happening in observable, measurable terms.
“I described the problem the best I could.
“He said, That’s good, Trenell! Now tell me what you would like to be happening in
behavioral terms.
“I don’t know, I said.
“Then don’t waste my time, he snapped.
“I just froze in amazement for a few seconds. I didn’t know what to do. He mercifully
broke the dead silence.
“If you can’t tell me what you’d like to be happening, he said, you don’t have a
problem yet. You’re just complaining. A problem only exists if there is a difference
between what is actually happening and what you desire to be happening.
“Being a quick learner, I suddenly realized I knew what I wanted to be happening.
After I told him, he asked me to talk about what may have caused the discrepancy
between the actual and the desired.
“After that the One Minute Manager said, Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“Well, I could do A, I said.
“If you did A, would what you want to happen actually happen? he asked.
“No, I said.
“Then you have a lousy solution. What else could you do? he asked.
“I could do B, I said.
“But if you do B, will what you want to happen really happen? he countered again.
“No, I realized.
“Then, that’s also a bad solution, he said. What else can you do?
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
18
“I thought about it for a couple of minutes and said, I could do C. But if I do C, what I
want to happen won’t happen, so that is a bad solution, isn’t it?
“Right. You’re starting to come around, the manager then said, with a smile on his
face. Is there anything else you could do? he asked.
“Maybe I could combine some of these solutions, I said.
“That sounds worth trying, he reacted.
“In fact, if I do A this week, B next week and C in two weeks, I’ll have it solved. That’s
fantastic. Thanks so much. You solved my problem for me.
“He got very annoyed. I did not, he interrupted, you solved it yourself. I just asked you
questions—questions you are able to ask yourself. Now get out of here and start solving
your own problems on your time, not mine.
“I knew what he had done, of course. He’d shown me how to solve problems so that I
could do it on my own in the future.
“Then he stood, looked me straight in the eye and said, You’re good, Trenell.
Remember that the next time you have a problem.
“I remember smiling as I left his office.”
Trenell leaned back in his chair and looked as if he were reliving his first encounter
with the One Minute Manager.
“So,” the young man began, reflecting on what he had just heard. ...
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
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One Minute Goals: Summary
One Minute Goal Setting is simply:
1. Agree on your goals.
2. See what good behavior looks like.
3. Write out each of your goals on a single sheet of paper using less than 250 words.
4. Read and re-read each goal, which requires only a minute or so each time
you do it.
5. Take a minute every once in a while out of your day to look at your performance,
and
6. See whether or not your behavior matches your goal.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
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“That’s it,” Trenell exclaimed, “you’re a fast learner.”
“Thank you,” the young man said, feeling good about himself. “But let me just jot that
down,” he said, “I want to remember that.”
After the young man wrote briefly in the small blue notebook he carried with him, he
leaned forward and asked, “If One Minute Goal Setting is the first secret to becoming a
One Minute Manager, what are the other two?”
Trenell smiled, looked at his watch and said, “Why don’t you ask Levy that? You are
scheduled to see him this morning too, aren’t you?”
The young man was amazed. How did Trenell know that? “Yes,” the young man said
as he rose to shake Trenell’s hand. “Thanks so much for your time, sir.”
“You’re welcome,” Trenell answered. “Time is one thing I have a lot more of now. As
you can probably tell, I’m becoming a One Minute Manager myself.”
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
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The Second Secret: One Minute Praisings
As the young man left Trenell’s office, he was struck by the simplicity of what he had
heard. He thought, “It certainly makes sense. After all, how can you be an effective
manager unless you and your people are sure of what they are being asked to do. And
what an efficient way to do it.”
The young man walked the length of the building and took the elevator to the second
floor. When he got to Mr. Levy’s office, he was surprised to meet so young a man. Levy
was probably in his late 20’s or early 30’s. “Well, you’ve been to see the ‘ole man.’ He’s
quite a guy, isn’t he?”
He was already getting used to the One Minute Manager being called “quite a guy.”
“I guess he is,” responded the young man.
“Did he tell you about being a One Minute Manager?” asked Levy.
“He sure did. It’s not true, is it?” asked the young man, wondering if he’d get a
different answer from Trenell’s.
“You’d better believe it’s true. I hardly ever see him.”
“You mean you never get any help from him?” pursued the young man.
“Essentially very little, although he does spend a fair amount of time with me at the
beginning of a new task or responsibility.”
“Yes, I know about One Minute Goal Setting,” interrupted the young man.
“Actually I wasn’t thinking so much about One Minute Goal Setting. I was referring to
One Minute Praisings.”
“One Minute Praisings?” echoed the young man. “Are they the second secret to
becoming a One Minute Manager?”
“Yes, they are,” Levy revealed. “In fact, when I first started to work here, the One
Minute Manager made it very clear to me what he was going to do.”
“What was that?” the visitor asked.
“He said that he knew that it would be a lot easier for me to do well, if I got crystalclear
feedback from him on how I was doing.
“He said he wanted me to succeed. He wanted me to be a big help to the organization,
and to enjoy my work.
“He told me that he would try, therefore, to let me know in no uncertain terms when I
was doing well, and when I was doing poorly.
“And then he cautioned me that it might not be very comfortable at first for either of
us.”
“Why?” the visitor asked.
“Because, as he pointed out to me then, most managers don’t manage that way and
people aren’t used to it. Then he assured me that such feedback would be a big help to
me.”
“Can you give me an example of what you are talking about?” the young man
requested.
“Sure,” Levy complied. “Shortly after I started to work, I noticed that, after my
manager had done One Minute Goal Setting with me, he would stay in close contact.”
“What do you mean by ‘close contact’?” asked the young man.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
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“There were two ways that he did it,” explained Levy. “First of all, he observed my
activities very closely. He never seemed to be very far away. Secondly, he made me keep
detailed records of my progress which he insisted I send to him.”
“That’s interesting,” said the young man. “Why does he do that?”
“At first I thought he was spying and didn’t trust me. That is, until I found out from
some of the other people who report to him what he was really doing.”
“What was that?” the young man wanted to know.
“He was trying to catch me doing something right,” Levy said.
“Catch you doing something right?” echoed the young man.
“Yes,” responded Levy. “We have a motto around here that says:
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
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ê
Help People
Reach Their
Full Potential
Catch Them
Doing Something
Right
ê
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
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Levy continued, “In most organizations the managers spend most of their time
catching people doing what?” he asked the young man.
The young man smiled and said knowingly, “Doing something wrong.”
“Right!” said Levy, “Here we put the accent on the positive. We catch people doing
something right.”
The young man made a few notes in his notebook and then asked, “What happens, Mr.
Levy, when the One Minute Manager catches you doing something right?”
“That’s when he gives you a One Minute Praising,” Levy said with some delight.
“What does that mean?” the young man wanted to know.
“Well, when he has seen that you have done something right, he comes over and
makes contact with you. That often includes putting his hand on your shoulder or briefly
touching you in a friendly way.”
“Doesn’t that bother you,” the young man wondered, “when he touches you?”
“No!” Levy insisted. “On the contrary, it helps. I know he really cares about me and
he wants me to prosper. As he says, The more consistently successful your people are, the
higher you rise in the organization.’
“When he makes contact, it’s brief, but it lets me know once again that we’re really on
the same side.
“Anyway, after that,” Levy continued, “he looks you straight in the eye and tells you
precisely what you did right. Then he shares with you how good he feels about what you
did.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a manager doing that,” the young man broke in. “That
must make you feel pretty good.”
“It certainly does,” Levy confirmed, “for several reasons. First of all, I get a praising
as soon as I’ve done something right.” He smiled and leaned towards his visitor. Then he
laughed and said, “I don’t have to wait for an annual performance review, if you know
what I mean.” Both men smiled.
“Second, since he specifies exactly what I did right, I know he’s sincere and familiar
with what I am doing. Third, he is consistent.”
“Consistent?” echoed the young man, wanting to know more.
“Yes,” insisted Levy. “He will praise me if I am performing well and deserve it even if
things are not going well for him elsewhere. I know he may be annoyed about other
things. But he responds to where I am, not just to where he is at the time. And I really
appreciate that.”
“Doesn’t all this praising have to take up a lot of the manager’s time?” the young man
asked.
“Not really,” said Levy. “Remember you don’t have to praise someone for very long
for them to know you noticed and you care. It usually takes less than a minute.”
“And that’s why it’s called a One Minute Praising,” the visitor said, as he wrote down
what he was learning.
“Right,” Levy said.
“Is he always trying to catch you doing something right?” the young man asked.
“No, of course not,” Levy answered. “Just when you first start work here or when you
begin a new project or responsibility, then he does. After you get to know the ropes, he
doesn’t seem to be around much.”
“Why?” the young man wondered.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
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“Because you and he have other ways of knowing when your job performance is
‘praiseworthy.’ You both can review the data in the information system—the sales
figures, expenditures, production schedules, and so on. And then,” Levy added, “after
awhile you begin to catch yourself doing things right and you start praising yourself.
Also, you’re always wondering when he might praise you again and that seems to keep
you going even when he’s not around. It’s uncanny. I’ve never worked so hard at a job in
my life.”
“That’s really interesting,” commented the young man. “So One Minute Praising is a
secret to becoming a One Minute Manager.”
“It is, indeed,” Levy said with a gleam in his eye. He enjoyed watching someone learn
the secrets of One Minute Management.
As the visitor looked at his notes, he quickly reviewed what he had learned about the
One Minute Praising.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
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One Minute Praisings: Summary
The One Minute Praising works well when you:
1. Tell people up front that you are going to let them know how they are doing.
2. Praise people immediately.
3. Tell people what they did right—be specific.
4. Tell people how good you feel about what they did right, and how it helps the
organization and the other people who work there.
5. Stop for a moment of silence to let them “feel” how good you feel.
6. Encourage them to do more of the same.
7. Shake hands or touch people in a way that makes it clear that you support their
success in the organization.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
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“What’s the third secret?” the young man asked anxiously.
Levy laughed at the visitor’s enthusiasm, rose from his chair and said, “Why don’t you
ask Ms. Brown? I understand you’re planning to talk to her, too.”
“Yes, I am,” admitted the young man. “Well, thanks so much for your time.”
“That’s OK,” insisted Levy. “Time is one thing I have plenty of—you see I’m a One
Minute Manager myself now.”
The visitor smiled. He’d heard that somewhere before.
He wanted to reflect on what he was learning. He left the building and took a walk
among the trees nearby. He was struck again by the simplicity and common sense of what
he had heard. “How can you argue with the effectiveness of catching people doing
something right,” the young man thought, “especially after they know what they are to do
and what good performance looks like.
“But do One Minute Praisings really work?” he wondered. “Does all this One Minute
Management stuff really get results—bottom-line results?”
As he walked along his curiosity about results increased. So he returned to the One
Minute Manager’s secretary and asked Ms. Metcalfe to reschedule his appointment with
Ms. Brown for some time the next morning.
“Tomorrow morning is fine,” the secretary said as she hung up the phone. “Ms. Brown
said to tell you to come any time except Wednesday morning.”
Then she called downtown and made the new appointment he requested. He was to see
Ms. Gomez, an official in the headquarters office. “They have information there about all
the different plants and locations in the total company,” Ms. Metcalfe said in a very
knowing way. “I’m sure you’ll find whatever you’re looking for.” He thanked her and
left.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
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The Appraisal
AFTER lunch the young man went downtown. He met with Ms. Gomez, a competent
looking woman in her early 40’s. Getting down to business, the young man asked,
“Could you please tell me what is the most efficient and effective of all your operations
in the country? I want to compare it with the so-called ‘One Minute Manager’s.’ ”
A moment later, he laughed, as he heard Ms. Gomez say, “Well, you won’t have to
look very far, because it is the One Minute Manager’s. He’s quite a guy, isn’t he? His
operation is the most efficient and effective of all of our plants.”
“That’s unbelievable,” said the young man. “Does he have the best equipment?’.’
“No,” said Ms. Gomez. “In fact, he’s got some of the oldest.”
“Well, there’s got to be something wrong out there,” said the young man, still puzzled
by the old man’s management style. “Tell me, does he lose a lot of his people? Does he
have a lot of turnover?”
“Come to think of it,” Ms. Gomez said, “he does have a lot of turnover.”
“Aha,” the young man said, thinking he was on to something.
“What happens to those folks when they leave the One Minute Manager?” the young
man wanted to know.
“We give them their own operation,” Ms. Gomez quickly responded. “After two years
with him, they say, ‘Who needs a manager?’ He’s our best trainer of people. Whenever
we have an opening and need a good manager, we call him. He always has somebody
who is ready.”
Amazed, the young man thanked Ms. Gomez for her time—but this time he got a
different response.
“I was glad I could fit you in today,” she said. “The rest of my week is really jammed.
I wish I knew what the One Minute Manager’s secrets were. I’ve been meaning to go
over there and see him, but I just haven’t had time.”
Smiling, the young man said, “I’ll give you those secrets as a gift when I find them out
myself. Just like he’s giving them to me.”
“That would be a precious present,” Ms. Gomez said with a smile. She looked around
her cluttered office and said, “I could use whatever help I can get.”
The young man left Ms. Gomez’s office and walked out onto the street, shaking his
head. The One Minute Manager was absolutely fascinating to him.
That night the young man had a very restless sleep. He found himself excited about
the next day—about learning the third secret to becoming a One Minute Manager.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
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The Third Secret: One Minute Reprimands
THE next morning he arrived at Ms. Brown’s office at the stroke of nine. A very smartly
dressed woman in her late 50’s greeted him. He got the usual, “He’s quite a guy, isn’t
he?” routine, but by now the young man was getting to the point where he could sincerely
say, “Yes, he is!”
“Did he tell you about being a One Minute Manager?” asked Ms. Brown.
“That’s all I’ve been hearing about,” the young man said laughing. “It’s not true, is
it?” he asked, still wondering if he’d get a different answer.
“You’d better believe it is. I hardly ever see him.”
“You mean you don’t have much contact with him,” pursued the young man, “outside
your regular weekly meeting?”
“Essentially very little. Except of course, when I do something wrong,” said Ms.
Brown.
Shocked, the young man said, “You mean the only time you see the One Minute
Manager is when you do something wrong?”
“Yes. Well, not quite,” said Ms. Brown, “but almost.”
“But I thought a key motto around here was catching people doing things right.”
“It is,” insisted Brown. “But you have to know some things about me.”
“What?” asked the young man.
“I’ve been working here for quite a few years. I know this operation inside and out. As
a result, the One Minute Manager doesn’t have to spend much time with me, if any, on
goal setting. In fact, I usually write out my goals and send them over to him.”
“Is each goal on a separate sheet of paper?” asked the young man.
“You bet. No longer than 250 words and each one takes me or the One Minute
Manager only a minute to read.
“Another thing about me that’s important is that I just love my work. As a result, I do
most of my own One Minute Praisings. In fact, I believe if you’re not for yourself, who
is? A friend of mine told me a motto I’ll always remember: ‘If you don’t blow your own
horn, someone else will use it as a spittoon.’ ”
The young man smiled. He liked her sense of humor. “Does your manager ever praise
you?” he asked.
“Sometimes he does, but he doesn’t have to do it very often because I beat him to the
punch,” answered Ms. Brown. “When I do something especially good, I might even ask
the One Minute Manager for a praising.”
“How would you ever have the nerve to do that?” asked the young man.
“It’s easy. Just like making a bet where I either win or I break even. If he gives me the
praising, I win.”
“But if he doesn’t?” the young man broke in.
“Then I break even,” responded Ms. Brown. “I didn’t have it before I asked.”
The young man smiled as he took note of Ms. Brown’s philosophy, and then
continued.
“You said he spends time with you when you do something wrong. What do you
mean?” asked the young man.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
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“If I make a significant mistake, that’s when I invariably get a One Minute
Reprimand,” Ms. Brown said.
“A what?” the startled young man asked.
“A One Minute Reprimand,” Ms. Brown repeated. “That’s the third secret to
becoming a One Minute Manager.”
“How does it work?” wondered the young man out loud.
“It’s simple,” said Ms. Brown.
“I figured you’d say that,” said the young man.
Ms. Brown joined his laugh and explained, “If you have been doing a job for some
time and you know how to do it well, and you make a mistake, the One Minute Manager
is quick to respond.”
“What does he do?” asked the young man.
“As soon as he has learned about the mistake he comes to see me. First he confirms
the facts. Then he might put his hand on my shoulder or maybe just come around to my
side of the desk.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?” asked the young man.
“Sure, it does, because you know what’s coming, especially since he doesn’t have a
smile on his face.
“He looks me straight in the eye,” she continued, “and tells me precisely what I did
wrong. Then he shares with me how he feels about it—he’s angry, annoyed, frustrated or
whatever he is feeling.”
“How long does that take?” asked the young man.
“Only about 30 seconds but sometimes it seems forever to me,” confided Ms. Brown.
The visitor couldn’t help but remember the feelings he had when the One Minute
Manager told him “in no uncertain terms” how annoyed he was with his indecision.
“And then what happens?” the young man asked as he moved to the edge of his chair.
“He lets what he said sink in with a few seconds of silence—boy, does it sink in!”
“Then what?” the young man asked.
“He looks me squarely in the eye and lets me know how competent he thinks I usually
am. He makes sure I understand that the only reason he is angry with me is that he has so
much respect for me. He says he knows this is so unlike me. He says how much he looks
forward to seeing me some other time, as long as I understand that he does not welcome
that same mistake again.”
The young man broke in. “It must make you think twice.”
“It certainly does,” Ms. Brown nodded vigorously.
The young man knew what Ms. Brown was talking about. He was taking notes now as
fast as he could. He sensed that it wasn’t going to take this woman long to cover several
important points.
“First of all,” Ms. Brown said, “he usually gives me the reprimand as soon as I’ve
done something wrong. Second, since he specifies exactly what I did wrong, I know he is
‘on top of things’ and that I’m not going to get away with sloppiness. Third, since he
doesn’t attack me as a person—only my behavior—it’s easier for me not to become
defensive. I don’t try to rationalize away my mistake by fixing blame on him or
somebody else. I know he is being fair. And fourth, he is consistent.”
“Does that mean he will reprimand you for doing something wrong, even if things are
going well for him elsewhere?”
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
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“Yes,” she answered.
“Does the whole process really take only a minute?” the young man asked.
“Usually,” she said. “And when it’s over, it’s over. A One Minute Reprimand doesn’t
last long but I can guarantee you, you don’t forget it—and you don’t usually make the
same mistake twice.”
“I think I know what you’re talking about,” the young man said. “I’m afraid I asked
him ...”
“I hope,” she interrupted, “you didn’t ask him to repeat himself.”
The young man was embarrassed. “I did,” he confessed.
“Then you know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of a One Minute
Reprimand,” she said. “Although I expect, as a visitor, you got a rather mild one.”
“I don’t know if you’d call it mild,” he said, “but I don’t think I’ll ask him to repeat
himself very often. That was a mistake.
“I wonder,” the visitor said out loud, “if the One Minute Manager ever makes a
mistake. He seems almost too perfect.”
Ms. Brown began to laugh. “Hardly,” she said. “But he does have a good sense of
humor. So when he does make a mistake, like forgetting to do the last half of the One
Minute Reprimand, we point it out to him and kid him about it.
“After we’ve had time to recover from the Reprimand, that is. We might, for example,
phone him later and tell him we know we were wrong. Then we might laugh and ask for
the praising half of the Reprimand, because we’re not feeling too good.”
“And what does he do then?” the young man asked.
“He usually laughs and says he’s sorry he forgot to remind me that I am an OK
Person.”
“You can laugh about praisings and reprimands?” the young man asked.
“Sure,” Ms. Brown said. “You see, the One Minute Manager has taught us the value of
being able to laugh at ourselves when we make a mistake. It helps us get on with our
work.”
“That’s terrific,” the young man enthused. “How did you learn to do that?”
“Simply,” Ms. Brown answered, “by watching the boss do it himself.”
“You mean your boss can laugh at himself when he makes a mistake?” the astonished
young man asked.
“Well, not always,” Ms. Brown admitted. “He’s like most of us. Sometimes it’s tough.
But he often can. And when he does laugh at himself, it has a positive effect on everyone
around him.”
“He must be pretty secure,” the young man suggested.
“He is,” Ms. Brown answered.
The young man was impressed. He was beginning to see how valuable such a manager
was to an organization.
“Why do you think the One Minute Manager’s reprimands are so effective?” he asked.
“I’ll let you ask the One Minute Manager,” she said, as she rose from behind the desk
and walked the young man to the door.
When he thanked her for her time, Ms. Brown smiled and said, “You know what the
response to that is going to be.” They both laughed. He was beginning to feel like an
“insider” rather than a visitor, and that felt good.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
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As soon as he was in the hall, he realized how little time he’d spent with her and how
much information she had given him.
He reflected on what she had said. It sounded so simple. He reviewed in his own mind
what you should do when you catch an experienced person doing something wrong.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
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One Minute Reprimands: Summary
The One Minute Reprimand works well when you:
1. Tell people beforehand that you are going to let them know how they are doing and
in no uncertain terms.
the first half of the reprimand:
2. Reprimand people immediately.
3. Tell people what they did wrong—be specific.
4. Tell people how you feel about what they did wrong—and in no uncertain terms.
5. Stop for a few seconds of uncomfortable silence to let them feel how you feel.
the second half of the reprimand:
6. Shake hands, or touch them in a way that lets them know you are honestly on their
side.
7. Remind them how much you value them.
8. Reaffirm that you think well of them but not of their performance in this situation.
9. Realize that when the reprimand is over, it’s over.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
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The young man may not have believed in the effectiveness of the One Minute
Reprimand if he hadn’t personally experienced its effect. There was no doubt that he felt
uncomfortable. And he did not want to experience it again.
However, he knew that everyone made mistakes now and then, and that he might very
well receive another reprimand some day. But he knew if it came from the One Minute
Manager, that it would be fair; that it would be a comment on his behavior and not on his
worth as a person.
As he headed toward the One Minute Manager’s office, he kept thinking about the
simplicity of One Minute Management.
All three of the secrets made sense—One Minute Goals, One Minute Praisings, and
One Minute Reprimands. “But why do they work?” he wondered. “Why is the One
Minute Manager the most productive manager in the company?”
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
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The One Minute Manager Explains
WHEN he got to the One Minute Manager’s, his secretary said, “You can go right in.
He’s been wondering when you’d be back to see him.”
As the young man entered the office, he noticed again how clear and uncluttered it
was. He was greeted by a warm smile from the One Minute Manager.
“Well, what did you find out in your travels?” he asked.
“A lot!” the young man said enthusiastically.
“Tell me what you learned,” the manager encouraged.
“I found out why you call yourself a One Minute Manager. You set One Minute Goals
with your people to make sure they know what they are being held accountable for and
what good performance looks like. You then try to catch them doing something right so
you can give them a One Minute Praising. And then, finally, if they have all the skills to
do something right and they don’t, you give them a One Minute Reprimand.”
“What do you think about all that?” asked the One Minute Manager.
“I’m amazed at how simple it is,” said the young man, “and yet it works—you get
results. I’m convinced that it certainly works for you.”
“And it will for you too, if you’re willing to do it,” the manager insisted.
“Perhaps,” said the young man, “but I would be more likely to do it if I could
understand more about why it works.”
“That’s true of everyone, young man. The more you understand why it works, the
more apt you are to use it. I’d be happy, therefore, to tell you what I know. Where do you
want to start?”
“Well, first of all, when you talk about One Minute Management, do you really mean
it takes a minute to do all the kinds of things you need to do as a manager?”
“No, not always. It just is a way to say that being a manager is not as complicated as
people would have you believe. And also managing people doesn’t take as long as you’d
think. So when I say One Minute Management, it might take more than a minute for each
of the key elements like goal setting, but it’s just a symbolic term. And very often it does
take only a minute.
“Let me show you one of the notes I keep on my desk.”
When he looked, the young man saw:
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
36
ê
The Best
Minute
I Spend
Is The One
I Invest
In People
ê
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
37
“It’s ironic,” the manager said. “Most companies spend 50% to 70% of their money on
people’s salaries. And yet they spend less than 1% of their budget to train their people.
Most companies, in fact, spend more time and money on maintaining their buildings and
equipment than they do on maintaining and developing people.”
“I never thought of that,” the young man admitted. “But if people get results, then it
certainly makes good sense to invest in people.”
“Exactly,” the manager said. “I wish I had had someone invest in me sooner when I
first went to work.”
“What do you mean?” the young man asked.
“Well, in most of the organizations I worked in before, I often didn’t know what I was
supposed to be doing. No one bothered to tell me. If you asked me whether I was doing a
good job, I would say either ‘I don’t know’ or ‘I think so.’ If you asked why I thought so,
I would reply, ‘I haven’t been chewed out by my boss lately’ or ‘no news is good news.’
It was almost as if my main motivation was to avoid punishment.”
“That’s interesting,” the young man admitted. “But I’m not sure I understand it.”
Then he added anxiously, “In fact, if it’s all right with you, maybe I could understand
things better if I could get to some of my ‘why’ questions. Let’s start with One Minute
Goal Setting. Why does it work so well?”
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
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Why One Minute Goals Work
“YOU want to know why One Minute Goals work,” the manager said. “Fine.” He got up
and began to pace slowly around the room.
“Let me give you an analogy that might help. I’ve seen a lot of unmotivated people at
work in the various organizations I’ve been employed in over the years. But I’ve never
seen an unmotivated person after work. Everyone seems to be motivated to do something.
“One night, for example, I was bowling and I saw some of the ‘problem employees’ at
work from my last organization. One of the real problem people, who I remembered all
too well, took the bowling ball and approached the line and rolled the ball. Then he
started to scream and yell and jump around. Why do you think he was so happy?”
“Because he got a strike. He had knocked down all the pins.”
“Exactly. Why don’t you think he and other people are that excited at work?”
“Because he doesn’t know where the pins are,” smiled the young man. “I get it. How
long would he want to bowl if there were no pins?”
“Right,” said the One Minute Manager. “Now you can see what happens in most
organizations. I believe that most managers know what they want their people to do.
They just don’t bother to tell their people in a way they would understand. They assume
they should know. I never assume anything when it comes to goal setting.
“When you assume that people know what’s expected of them, you are creating an
ineffective form of bowling. You put the pins up but when the bowler goes to roll the
ball, he notices there is a sheet across the pins. So when he rolls the ball, and it slips
under the sheet, he hears a crack but doesn’t know how many pins he knocked down.
When you ask him how he did, he says, I don’t know. But it felt good.
“It’s like playing golf at night. A lot of my friends have given up golf and when I
asked them why, they said, ‘Because the courses are too crowded.’ When I suggested that
they play at night, they laughed because who would ever play golf without being able to
see the pins?
“It’s the same with watching football. How many people in this country would sit in
front of their TV’s on a Sunday afternoon or Monday night and watch two teams run up
and down the field if there were no goals to shoot at or any way to score?”
“Yeah! Why is that?” asked the young man.
“It’s all because clearly the number one motivator of people is feedback on results. In
fact, we have another saying here that’s worth noting: ‘Feedback is the Breakfast of
Champions.’ Feedback keeps us going. Unfortunately, however, when most managers
realize that feedback on results is the number one motivator of people, they usually set up
a third form of bowling.
“When the bowler goes to the line to roll the ball, the pins are still up and the sheet is
in place but now there is another ingredient in the game—a supervisor standing behind
the sheet. When the bowler rolls the ball, he hears the crash of the falling pins, and the
supervisor holds up two fingers to signify you knocked down two pins. Actually, do most
managers say you got two?”
“No,” the young man smiled. “They usually say you missed eight.”
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
39
“Right on!” said the One Minute Manager. “The question I always used to ask was
why doesn’t the manager ‘lift the sheet up’ so both he and his subordinate can see the
pins. Why? Because he has the great American tradition—Performance Review—coming
up.”
“Because he has Performance Review coming up?” wondered the young man.
“Right. I used to call that ‘NIHYSOB’ which stands for ‘Now I have you—you SOB.’
Such managers don’t tell their people what they expect of them; they just leave them
alone and then ‘zap’ them when they don’t perform at the desired level.”
“Why do you suppose they would do that?” the young man inquired, being very
familiar with the truth in the manager’s comments.
“So they can look good,” said the manager.
“What do you mean, so they can look good?” asked the young man.
“How do you think you would be viewed by your boss if you rated everyone that
reported to you at the highest level on your performance review scale?”
“As a ‘soft touch,’ as someone who could not discriminate between good performance
and poor performance.”
“Precisely,” said the manager. “In order to look good as a manager in most
organizations, you have to catch some of your people doing things wrong. You have to
have a few winners, a few losers, and everyone else somewhere in the middle. You see,
in this country we have a normal-distribution-curve mentality. I remember one time when
visiting my son’s school, I observed a fifth-grade teacher giving a state capitals test to her
class. When I asked her why she didn’t put atlases around the room and let the kids use
them during the test, she said, ‘I couldn’t do that because all the kids would get 100
percent.’ As though it would be bad for everyone to do well.
“I remember once reading that when someone asked Einstein what his phone number
was, he went to the phone book to look it up.”
The young man laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not kidding. He said he never cluttered his mind with information he could
find somewhere else.
“Now, if you didn’t know better,” the manager continued, “what would you think of
someone who went to the phone book to look up his own number? Would you think he
was a winner or a loser?”
The young man grinned and said, “A real loser.”
“Sure,” the manager responded. “I would, too, but we’d be wrong, wouldn’t we?”
The young man nodded his agreement.
“It’s easy for any of us to make this mistake,” the manager said. Then he showed his
visitor the plaque he had made for himself. “Look at this:”
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
40
ê
Everyone
Is A Potential Winner
Some People
Are Disguised
As Losers,
Don’t Let
Their Appearances
Fool You.
ê
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
41
“You see,” the manager said, “you really have three choices as a manager. First, you
can hire winners. They are hard to find and they cost money. Or, second, if you can’t find
a winner, you can hire someone with the potential to be a winner. Then you
systematically train that person to become a winner. If you are not willing to do either of
the first two (and I am continually amazed at the number of managers who won’t spend
the money to hire a winner or take the time to train someone to become a winner), then
there is only the third choice left—prayer.”
That stopped the young man cold. He put down his notebook and pen and said,
“Prayer?”
The manager laughed quietly. “That’s just my attempt at humor, young man. But
when you think about it, there are many managers who are saying their prayers daily—‘I
hope this person works out.’ ”
“Oh,” the young man said seriously. “Well, let’s take the first choice. If you hire a
winner, it’s really easy to be a One Minute Manager, isn’t it?”
“It sure is,” said the manager with a smile. He was amazed at how serious the young
man was now—as though being more serious made a person a better manager. “All you
have to do with a winner is do One Minute Goal Setting and let them run with the ball.”
“I understand from Ms. Brown, sometimes you don’t even have to do that with her,”
said the young man.
“She’s absolutely right,” said the manager. “She’s forgotten more than most people
know around here. But with everyone, winner or potential winner, One Minute Goal
Setting is a basic tool for productive behavior.”
“Is it true that no matter who initiates the One Minute Goal Setting,” the young man
asked, “each goal always has to be written down on a single sheet of paper?”
“Absolutely,” insisted the One Minute Manager.
“Why is that so important?”
“So people can review their goals frequently and then check their performance against
those goals.”
“I understand you have them write down only their major goals and responsibilities
and not every aspect of their job,” the young man said.
“Yes. That’s because I don’t want this to be a paper mill. I don’t want a lot of pieces
of paper filed away somewhere and looked at only once a year when it’s time for next
year’s goal setting or performance review, or some such thing.
“As you probably saw, everyone who works for me has a plaque near them that looks
like this.” He showed his visitor his copy of the plaque.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
42
ê
Take A Minute:
Look At Your Goals
Look At
Your Performance
See If Your Behavior
Matches Your Goals
ê
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
43
The young man was amazed. He’d missed this in his brief visit. “I never saw this,” he
said. “It’s terrific. Could I get one of these plaques?”
“Sure,” the manager said. “I’ll arrange it.”
As he was writing down some of what he was learning, the aspiring manager said,
without lifting up his head, “You know, it’s difficult to learn everything there is to learn
about One Minute Management in such a short time. There’s certainly more I’d like to
learn about One Minute Goals, for instance, but maybe I could do that later.
“Could we move to One Minute Praisings now?” asked the young man, as he looked
up from his notebook.
“Sure,” said the One Minute Manager. “You’re probably wondering why that works,
too.”
“I certainly am,” the visitor responded.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
44
Why One Minute Praisings Work
LET’S look at a few examples,” the One Minute Manager said. “Maybe then it will be
clear to you why One Minute Praisings work so well.”
“I’d like that,” said the young man.
“I’ll start with a pigeon example and then move on to people,” said the manager. “Just
remember young man, people are not pigeons. People are more complicated. They are
aware, they think for themselves and they certainly don’t want to be manipulated by
another person. Remember that and respect that. It is a key to good management.
“With that in mind, let us look at several simple examples which show us that we all
seek what feels good to us and we avoid what feels bad to us.
“Suppose you have an untrained pigeon that you want to enter a box in the lower lefthand
corner and run across the box to the upper right-hand corner and push a lever with
his right foot. Suppose that not too far from the entry point we have a pellet machine—
that is, a machine that can release pellets of food to reward and reinforce the pigeon.
What do you think is going to happen if we put the pigeon in the box and wait until the
pigeon runs over to the upper right-hand corner and pushes the lever with his right foot
before we give him any food?” asked the One Minute Manager.
“He would starve to death,” responded the young man.
“You’re right. We’re going to lose a lot of pigeons. The pigeon is going to starve to
death because he doesn’t have any idea what he is supposed to do.
“Now it’s actually not too hard to train a pigeon to do this task. All you have to do is
to draw a line not too far from where the pigeon enters the box. If the pigeon enters the
box and crosses the line—bang—the pellet machine goes off and the pigeon gets fed.
Pretty soon you have the pigeon running to that spot, but you don’t want the pigeon there.
Where do you want the pigeon?”
“In the upper right-hand corner of the box,” said the young man.
“Right!” the One Minute Manager confirmed. “Therefore, after a while you stop
rewarding the pigeon for running to that spot and draw another line which isn’t too far
from the last line, but is in the direction of the goal—the upper right-hand corner of the
box. Now the pigeon starts running around his old spot and doesn’t get fed. Pretty soon
though, the pigeon makes it across the new line and—bang—the machine goes off again
and the pigeon gets fed.
“Then you draw another line. Again this line has to be in the direction of the goal, but
not too far away that the pigeon can’t make it again. We keep setting up these lines closer
and closer to the upper right-hand corner of the box until we won’t feed the pigeon unless
he hits the lever and then finally only when he hits the lever with his right foot.”
“Why do you set up all these little goals?” wondered the young man.
“By setting up these series of lines, we are establishing goals that the pigeon can
achieve. So the key to training someone to do a new task is, in the beginning, to catch
them doing something approximately right until they can eventually learn to do it exactly
right.
“We use this concept all the time with kids and animals, but we somehow forget it
when we are dealing with big people—adults. For example, at some of these Sea
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
45
Aquariums you see ‘round the country, they usually end the show by having a huge
whale jump over a rope which is high above the water. When the whale comes down he
drenches the first ten rows.
“The people leave that show mumbling to themselves, That’s unbelievable. How do
they teach that whale to do that?’
“Do you think they go out in the ocean in a boat,” the manager asked, “and put a rope
out over the water and yell, ‘Up, up!’ until a whale jumps out of the water over the rope?
And then say, ‘Hey, let’s hire him. He’s a real winner.’ ”
“No,” laughed the young man, “but that really would be hiring a winner.”
The two men enjoyed the laugh they shared.
“You’re right,” the manager said. “When they captured the whale, he knew nothing
about jumping over ropes. So when they began to train him in the large pool, where do
you think they started the rope?”
“At the bottom of the pool,” answered the young man.
“Of course!” responded the manager. “Every time the whale swam over the rope—
which was every time he swam past—he got fed. Soon, they raised the rope a little.
“If the whale swam under the rope, he didn’t get fed during training. Whenever he
swam over the rope, he got fed. So after a while the whale started swimming over the
rope all of the time. Then they started raising the rope a little higher.”
“Why do they raise the rope?” asked the young man.
“First,” the manager began, “because they were clear on the goal: to have the whale
jump high out of the water and over the rope.
“And second,” the One Minute Manager pointed out, “it’s not a very exciting show for
a trainer to say, ‘Folks, the whale did it again.’ Everybody may be looking in the water
but they can’t see anything. Over a period of time they keep on raising the rope until they
finally get it to the surface of the water. Now the great whale knows that in order to get
fed, he has to jump partially out of the water and over the rope. As soon as that goal is
reached, they can start raising the rope higher and higher out of the water.”
“So that’s how they do it,” the young man said. “Well, I can understand now how
using that method works with animals, but isn’t it a bit much to use it with people?”
“No, it’s very natural in fact,” the manager said. “We all do essentially the same thing
with the children we care for. How do you think you teach them to walk? Can you
imagine standing a child up and saying ‘Walk,’ and when he falls down you pick him up
and spank him and say, ‘I told you to walk.’ No, you stand the child up and the first day
he wobbles a little bit, and you get all excited and say, ‘He stood, he stood,’ and you hug
and kiss the child. The next day he stands for a moment and maybe wobbles a step and
you are all over him with kisses and hugs.
“Finally the child, realizing that this is a pretty good deal, starts to wobble his legs
more and more until he eventually walks.
“The same thing goes for teaching a child to speak. Suppose you wanted a child to
say, ‘Give me a glass of water, please.’ If you waited until the child said the whole
sentence before you gave her any water, the child would die of thirst. So you start off by
saying ‘Water, water.’ All of a sudden one day the child says, ‘Waller.’ You jump all
over the place, hug and kiss the child, get grandmother on the phone so the child can say
‘Waller, waller.’ That wasn’t ‘water,’ but it was close.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
46
“Now you don’t want a kid going into a restaurant at the age of twenty-one asking for
a glass of ‘waller’ so after a while you only accept the word ‘water’ and then you begin
on ‘please.’
“These examples illustrate that the most important thing in training somebody to
become a winner is to catch them doing something right—in the beginning approximately
right and gradually moving them towards the desired behavior. With a winner you don’t
have to catch them doing things right very often, because good performers catch
themselves doing things right and are able to be self-reinforcing.”
“Is that why you observe new people a lot in the beginning,” asked the young man, “or
when your more experienced people are starting a new project?”
“Yes,” the One Minute Manager said. “Most managers wait until their people do
something exactly right before they praise them. As a result, many people never get to
become high performers because their managers concentrate on catching them doing
things wrong—that is, anything that falls short of the final desired performance. In our
pigeon example, it would be like putting the pigeon in the box and not only waiting until
he hits the lever to give him any food but putting some electric grills around the box to
punish him periodically just to keep him motivated.”
“That doesn’t sound like it would be very effective,” the young man suggested.
“Well, it isn’t,” agreed the One Minute Manager. “After getting punished for a while
and not knowing what acceptable behavior is (that is, hitting the lever), the pigeon would
go into the corner of the box and not move. To the pigeon it is a hostile environment and
not worth taking any risks in.
“That is what we often do with new, inexperienced people. We welcome them aboard,
take them around to meet everybody, and then we leave them alone. Not only do we not
catch them doing anything approximately right, but periodically we zap them just to keep
them moving. This is the most popular leadership style of all. We call it the ‘leave alonezap’
style. You leave a person alone, expecting good performance from them, and when
you don’t get it, you zap them.”
“What happens to these people?” asked the young man.
“If you’ve been in any organization, and I understand you’ve visited several,” the
manager said, “you know, because you’ve seen them. They do as little as possible.
“And that’s what’s wrong with most businesses today. Their people really do not
produce—either quantity or quality.
“And much of the reason for this poor business performance is simply because the
people are managed so poorly.”
The young man put his notebook down. He thought about what he just heard. He was
beginning to see One Minute Management for what it is—a practical business tool.
It was amazing to him how well something as simple as the One Minute Praising
worked—whether it was inside or outside the business world.
“That reminds me of some friends of mine,” the young man said. “They called me and
said that they’d gotten a new dog. They asked me what I thought of their planned method
of training the dog.”
The manager was almost afraid to ask, “How were they going to do it?”
“They said if the dog had an accident on the rug, they were going to take the dog,
shove his nose in it, pound him on the butt with a newspaper and then throw the dog out
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
47
this little window in the kitchen into the back yard—where the dog was supposed to do
his job.
“Then, they asked me what I thought would happen with this method. I laughed
because I knew what would happen. After about three days the dog would poop on the
floor and jump out the window. The dog didn’t know what to do, but he knew he had
better clear the area.”
The manager roared his approval.
“That’s a great story,” he said. “You see, that’s what punishment does when you use it
with somebody who lacks confidence or is insecure because of lack of experience. If
inexperienced people don’t perform (that is, do what you want them to do), then rather
than punish them we need to go back to One Minute Goal Setting and make sure they
understand what is expected of them, and that they have seen what good performance
looks like.”
“Well, then, after you have done One Minute Goal Setting again,” the young man
asked, “do you try to catch them doing something approximately right again?”
“Precisely so,” the One Minute Manager agreed. “You’re always trying to create
situations in the beginning where you can give a One Minute Praising.” Then, looking the
young man straight in the eyes, the manager said, “You are a very enthusiastic and
receptive learner. That makes me feel good about sharing the secrets of One Minute
Management with you.” They both smiled. They knew a One Minute Praising when they
heard one.
“I sure enjoy a praising more than a reprimand,” the young man laughed.
“I think I understand now why One Minute Goals and One Minute Praisings work.
They really do make good sense to me.”
“Good,” said the One Minute Manager.
“But I can’t imagine why the One Minute Reprimand works,” the young man
wondered out loud.
“Let me tell you a few things about it,” said the One Minute Manager.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
48
Why One Minute Reprimands Work
“THERE are several reasons why the One Minute Reprimand works so well.
“To begin with,” the manager explained, “the feedback in the One Minute Reprimand
is immediate. That is, you get to the individual as soon as you observe the ‘misbehavior’
or your data information system tips you off. It is not appropriate to gunnysack or save up
negative feelings about someone’s poor performance.
“The fact that the feedback is so immediate is an important lesson in why the One
Minute Reprimand works so well. Unless discipline occurs as close to the misbehavior as
possible, it tends not to be as helpful in influencing future behavior. Most managers are
‘gunnysack’ discipliners. That is, they store up observations of poor behavior and then
some day when performance review comes or they are angry in general because the ‘sack
is so full,’ they charge in and ‘dump everything on the table.’ They tell people all the
things they have done wrong for the last few weeks or months or more.”
The young man breathed a deep sigh and said, “So true.”
“And then,” the One Minute Manager went on, “the manager and subordinate usually
end up yelling at each other about the facts or simply keeping quiet and resenting each
other. The person receiving the feedback doesn’t really hear what he or she has done
wrong. This is a version of the ‘leave alone-zap’ form of discipline that I’ve spoken about
earlier.”
“I remember it well,” responded the young man. “That is certainly something I want to
avoid.”
“Absolutely,” agreed the manager. “If managers would only intervene early, they
could deal with one behavior at a time and the person receiving the discipline would not
be overwhelmed. They could hear the feedback. That’s why I think performance review
is an ongoing process, not something you do only once a year.”
“So, one reason that the One Minute Reprimand works is that the person receiving the
reprimand can ‘hear’ the feedback, because when the manager deals with one behavior at
a time, it seems more fair and clear,” the young man summarized.
“Yes,” the manager said. “And secondly, when I give a One Minute Reprimand, I
never attack a person’s worth or value as a person. Since their OK-ness as a person is not
‘up for grabs,’ they don’t feel they have to defend themselves. I reprimand the behavior
only. Thus, my feedback and their own reaction to it is about the specific behavior and
not their feelings about themselves as human beings.
“So often, when disciplining people, managers persecute the individual. My purpose
in a One Minute Reprimand is to eliminate the behavior and keep the person.”
“So that’s why you make the second half of the reprimand a praising,” the young man
said. “Their behavior is not OK. They are OK.”
“Yes,” agreed the One Minute Manager.
“Why wouldn’t you give the praising first and then the reprimand?” suggested the
young man.
“For some reason, it just doesn’t work,” insisted the manager. “Some people, now that
I think of it, say that I am Nice ’n’ Tough as a manager. But to be more accurate, I’m
really Tough ’n’ Nice.”
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
49
“Tough ’n’ Nice,” echoed the young man.
“Yes,” insisted the One Minute Manager. “This is an old philosophy that has worked
well for literally thousands of years.
“There is, in fact, a story in ancient China that illustrates this. Once upon a time, an
emperor appointed a second in command. He called this prime minister in and, in effect,
said to him, Why don’t we divide up the tasks? Why don’t you do all the punishing and
I’ll do all the rewarding? The prime minister said, Fine. I’ll do all the punishing and you
do all the rewarding.”
“I think I’m going to like this story,” the young man said.
“You will, you will,” the One Minute Manager replied with a knowing smile.
“Now this emperor,” the manager continued, “soon noticed that whenever he asked
someone to do something, they might do it or they might not do it. However, when the
prime minister spoke, people moved. So the emperor called the prime minister back in
and said, Why don’t we divide the tasks again? You have been doing all the punishing
here for quite a while. Now let me do the punishing and you do the rewarding. So the
prime minister and the emperor switched roles again.
“And, within a month the prime minister was emperor. The emperor had been a nice
person, rewarding and being kind to everyone; then he started to punish people. People
said, What’s wrong with that old codger? and they threw him out on his ear. When they
came to look for a replacement, they said, You know who’s really starting to come
around now—the prime minister. So, they put him right into office.”
“Is that a true story?” the young man asked.
“Who cares?” said the One Minute Manager, laughing. “Seriously,” he added, “I do
know this. If you are first tough on the behavior, and then supportive of the person, it
works.”
“Do you have any modern-day examples of where the One Minute Reprimand has
worked other than in management?” the young man asked the wise manager.
“Yes certainly,” the manager said, “Let me mention two: one with severe adult
behavior problems and another in disciplining children.”
“What do you mean when you say ‘severe adult behavior problems’?” the young man
asked.
“I’m talking about alcoholics in particular,” the manager answered. “About thirty
years ago an observant clergyman discovered a technique which is now called ‘crisis
intervention.’ He made the discovery when he was helping a physician’s wife. She was in
a Minnesota hospital in critical condition and slowly dying from cirrhosis of the liver.
But she was still denying that she had a drinking problem. When all her family had
gathered at her bedside, the clergyman asked each of them to describe specific drinking
incidents they had observed. That’s an important part of the One Minute Reprimand.
Before giving a reprimand you have to see the behavior yourself—you can’t depend on
what someone else saw. You never give a reprimand based on ‘hearsay.’ ”
“Interesting,” the young man broke in.
“Let me finish. After the family described specific behaviors, the clergyman asked
each of the family members to tell the woman how they felt about those incidents.
Gathered closely around her, one by one they told her first what she did, and second, how
they felt about it. They were angry, frustrated, embarrassed. And then they told her how
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
50
much they loved her, and they instinctively touched her and gently said how they wanted
her to live and to enjoy life once again. That was why they were so angry with her.”
“That sounds so simple,” said the young man, “especially with something as
complicated as a drinking problem. Did it work?”
“Amazingly so,” the One Minute Manager insisted. “And now there are crisis
intervention centers all over the country. It’s not as simple as I’ve summarized it, of
course. But these three basic ingredients—telling people what they did wrong; telling
people how you feel about it; and reminding people that they are valuable and
worthwhile—lead to significant improvements in people’s behavior.”
“That’s nothing short of incredible,” the young man said.
“I know it is,” the manager agreed.
“You said you’d give me two examples of how other people successfully use methods
like the One Minute Reprimand,” the young man said.
“Yes, of course. In the early 1970’s, a family psychiatrist in California also made the
same amazing discovery with children. He had read a lot about bonding—the emotional
ties people have to people. He knew what people needed. People need to be in contact
with people who care about them—to be accepted as valuable just because they are
people.
“The doctor also knew that people need to have a spade called a spade—to be pulled
up short by people who care when they are not behaving well.”
“How does that translate,” the young man wanted to know, “into practical action?”
“Each parent is taught to physically touch their child by putting their hand on the
child’s shoulder, touching his arm, or if he is young actually sitting the child in their lap.
Then the parent tells the child exactly what he did wrong and how the parent feels about
it—and in no uncertain terms. (You can see that this is very like what the family
members did for the sick woman.) Finally, the parent takes a deep breath, and allows for
a few seconds of silence—so the child can feel whatever the parent is feeling. Then the
parent tells the youngster how valuable and important the child is to the parent.
“You see, it is very important when you are managing people to remember that
behavior and worth are not the same things. What is really worthwhile is the person
managing their own behavior. This is as true of each of us as managers as it is of each of
the people we are managing.
“In fact, if you know this,” the manager said, as he pointed to one of his favorite
plaques, “you will know the key to a really successful reprimand.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
51
ê
We Are Not
Just
Our Behavior
We Are
The Person
Managing
Our Behavior
ê
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
52
“If you realize that you are managing people, and not just their recent behavior,” the
manager concluded, “you will do well.”
“It sounds like there’s a lot of caring and respect behind such a reprimand,” the young
man said.
“I’m glad you noticed that, young man. You will be successful with the One Minute
Reprimand when you really care about the welfare of the person you are reprimanding.”
“That reminds me,” the young man injected, “Mr. Levy told me that you pat him on
the shoulder, or shake hands, or in some other way make contact with him during a
praising. And now I notice that the parents are encouraged to touch their children during
the scolding. Is touching an important part of the One Minute Praisings and
Reprimands?”
“Yes and no,” the manager answered with a smile. “Yes, if you know the person well
and are clearly interested in helping the person to succeed in his or her work. And no, if
you or the other person has any doubts about that.
“Touch is a very powerful message,” the manager pointed out. “People have strong
feelings about being touched, and that needs to be respected. Would you, for instance,
like someone whose motives you weren’t sure of, to touch you during a praising or a
reprimand?”
“No,” the young man answered clearly. “I really wouldn’t!”
“You see what I mean,” the manager explained. “Touch is very honest. People know
immediately when you touch them whether you care about them, or whether you are just
trying to find a new way to manipulate them.
“There is a very simple rule about touching,” the manager continued. “When you
touch, don’t take. Touch the people you manage only when you are giving them
something—reassurance, support, encouragement, whatever.”
“So you should refrain from touching someone,” the young man said, “until you know
them and they know you are interested in their success—that you are clearly on their side.
I can see that.
“But,” the young man said hesitantly, “while the One Minute Praisings and the One
Minute Reprimands look simple enough, aren’t they really just powerful ways for you to
get people to do what you want them to do? And isn’t that manipulative?”
“You are right about One Minute Management being a powerful way to get people to
do what you want them to do,” the manager confirmed.
“However manipulation is getting people to do something they are either not aware of
or don’t agree to. That is why it is so important to let each person know up front what
you are doing and why.
“It’s like anything else in life,” the manager explained. “There are things that work,
and things that don’t work. Being honest with people eventually works. On the other
hand, as you have probably learned in your own life, being dishonest eventually leads to
failing with people. It’s just that simple.”
“I can see now,” the young man said, “where the power of your management style
comes from—you care about people.”
“Yes,” the manager said simply, “I guess I do.”
The young man remembered how gruff he thought this special manager was when he
first met him.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
53
It was as though the manager could read his mind.
“Sometimes,” the One Minute Manager said, “you have to care enough to be tough.
And I am. I am very tough on the poor performance—but only on the performance. I am
never tough on the person.”
The young man liked the One Minute Manager. He knew now why people liked to
work with him.
“Maybe you would find this interesting, Sir,” the younger man said, as he pointed to
his notebook. “It is a plaque I’ve created to remind me of how goals—the One Minute
Goals—and consequences—the Praisings and the Reprimands—affect people’s
behavior.”
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
54
ê
Goals
Begin
Behaviors
Consequences
Maintain
Behaviors
ê
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
55
“That’s very good!” the manager exclaimed.
“Do you think so?” the young man asked, wanting to hear the compliment once again.
“Young man,” the manager said very slowly for emphasis, “it is not my role in life to
be a human tape recorder. I do not have time to continually repeat myself.”
Just when he thought he would be praised, the young man felt he was in for another
One Minute Reprimand, something he wanted to avoid.
The bright young man kept a straight face and said simply, “What?”
They looked at each other only for a moment and then they both burst into laughter.
“I like you, young man,” the manager said. “How would you like to go to work here?”
The young man put down his notebook and stared in amazement. “You mean go to
work for you?” he asked enthusiastically.
“No. I mean go to work for yourself like the other people in my department. Nobody
ever really works for anybody else. I just help people work better and in the process they
benefit our organization.”
This was, of course, what the young man had been looking for all along.
“I’d love to work here,” he said.
And so he did—for some time.
The time the special manager had invested in him paid off. Because eventually, the
inevitable happened.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
56
ê
HE
became a
One Minute
Manager.
ê
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
57
He became a One Minute Manager not because he thought like one, or talked like one,
but because he behaved like one.
He set One Minute Goals.
He gave One Minute Praisings.
He gave One Minute Reprimands.
He asked brief, important questions; spoke the simple truth; laughed, worked, and
enjoyed.
And, perhaps most important of all, he encouraged the people he worked with to do
the same.
He had even created a pocket size “Game Plan” to make it easier for the people around
him to become One Minute Managers. He had given it as a useful gift to each person who
reported to him.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
58
A Gift To Yourself
MANY years later, the man looked back on the time when he first heard of the
principles of One Minute Management. It seemed like a long time ago. He was glad he
had written down what he learned from the One Minute Manager.
He had put his notes into a book, and had given copies to many people.
He remembered Ms. Gomez’s telephoning to say, “I can’t thank you enough. It’s
made a big difference in my work.” That pleased him.
As he thought back on the past, he smiled. He remembered how much he had learned
from the original One Minute Manager, and he was grateful.
The new manager was also happy that he could take the knowledge one step further.
By giving copies to many other people in the organization, he had solved several
practical problems.
Everyone who worked with him felt secure. No one felt manipulated or threatened
because everyone knew “up front” what he was doing and why.
They could also see why the seemingly simple One Minute Management techniques—
Goals, Praising and Reprimands—worked so well with people.
Every person who had their own copy of the text could read and re-read it at their own
pace until they could understand it and put it to good use themselves. The manager knew
full well the very practical advantage of repetition in learning anything new.
Sharing the knowledge in this simple and honest way had, of course, saved him a good
deal of time. And it had certainly made his job easier.
Many of the people reporting to him had become One Minute Managers themselves.
And they, in turn, had done the same for many of the people who reported to them.
The entire organization had become more effective.
As he sat at his desk thinking, the new One Minute Manager realized what a fortunate
individual he was. He had given himself the gift of getting greater results in less time.
He had time to think and to plan—to give his organization the kind of help it needed.
He had time to exercise and stay healthy.
He knew he did not experience the daily emotional and physical stress other managers
subjected themselves to.
And he knew that many of the other people who worked with him enjoyed the same
benefits.
His department had fewer costly personnel turnovers, less personal illness, and less
absenteeism. The benefits were significant.
As he looked back, he was glad he had not waited to use One Minute Management
until he thought he could do it just right.
After his staff had read about this management system, he had asked each person who
reported to him if they would like to be managed by a One Minute Manager.
He was amused to learn that there was something that people really wanted even more
than learning how to become a One Minute Manager themselves. And that was to have
one for a boss!
Once he knew this, it was a lot easier for him to clearly tell his staff that he wasn’t
sure that he could do it just exactly the way he was “supposed to.”
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
59
“I’m not accustomed to telling people how good they are or how I feel about things,”
he had said. “And I’m not sure I can remember to calm down after I’ve given someone a
reprimand and reminded them of how good they are as a person.”
The typical answer from his associates had caused him to smile. “Well, you could at
least give it a try!”
By simply asking if his staff wanted to be managed by a One Minute Manager and by
admitting that he may not always be able to do it right, he had accomplished something
very important.
The people he worked with felt that he was honestly on their side from the very
beginning. And that made all the difference.
Then the new One Minute Manager got up from his desk and began to walk about his
uncluttered office. He was deep in thought.
He felt good about himself—as a person and as a manager.
His caring about people had paid off handsomely. He had risen in the organization,
gaining more responsibilities and more rewards.
And he knew he had become an effective manager, because both his organization and
the people in it had clearly benefited from his presence.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
60
A Gift For Others
SUDDENLY the intercom buzzed and startled the man. “Excuse me, sir, for interrupting
you,” he heard his secretary say, “but there is a young woman on the phone. She wants to
know if she can come and talk to you about the way we manage people here.”
The new One Minute Manager was pleased. He knew more women were entering the
business world. And he was glad that some of them were as keen to learn about good
management as he had been.
The manager’s department was now running smoothly. As you might expect, it was
one of the best operations of its kind in the world. His people were productive and happy.
And he was happy too. It felt good to be in his position.
“Come any time,” he heard himself telling the caller.
And soon he found himself talking to a bright young person. “I’m glad to share my
management secrets with you,” the new One Minute Manager said, as he showed the
visitor to his couch. “I will only make one request of you.”
“What is that,” the visitor asked.
“Simply,” the manager began, “that you ...”
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
61
ê
Share It With Others
ê
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
62
Acknowledgments
Over the years we have learned from, and been influenced by, many individuals. We
would like to acknowledge and give a public praising to the following people:
A Special Praising to:
*Dr. Gerald Nelson, the originator of The One Minute Scolding, an amazingly
effective method of parental discipline. We have adapted his method into “The One
Minute Reprimand,” an equally effective method of managerial discipline.
and to:
Dr. Elliott Carlisle for what he taught us about productive managers who have time to
think and plan.
Dr. Thomas Connellan for what he taught us about making behavioral concepts and
theories clear and understandable to all.
Dr. Paul Hersey for what he taught us about weaving the various applied behavioral
sciences into a useful fabric.
Dr. Vernon Johnson for what he taught us about the Crisis Intervention Method of
treatment for alcoholics.
Dr. Dorothy Jongeward, Jay Shelov, and Abe Wagner for what they taught us about
communication and the OK-ness of people.
Dr. Robert Lorber for what he taught us about the application and use of behavioral
concepts in business and industry.
Dr. Kenneth Majer for what he taught us about goal-setting and performance.
Dr. Charles McCormick for what he taught us about touching and professionalism.
Dr. Carl Rogers for what he taught us about personal honesty and openness.
Louis Tice for what he taught us about unlocking human potential.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
63
About the Authors
Dr. Kenneth Blanchard, Chairman of Blanchard Training and Development, Inc.
(BTD), is an internationally known author, educator and consultant/trainer. He is the coauthor
of the highly acclaimed and most widely used text on leadership and organization
behavior, Management of Organization Behavior: Utilizing Human Resources, which is
in its fourth edition and has been translated into numerous languages.
Dr. Blanchard received his B. A. from Cornell University in Government and
Philosophy, an M.A. from Colgate University in Sociology and Counseling and a Ph.D.
from Cornell in Administration and Management. He presently serves as a professor of
Leadership and Organizational Behavior at University of Massachusetts, Amherst. In
addition, he is a member of the National Training Laboratories (NTL).
Dr. Blanchard has advised such distinguished corporations and agencies as Chevron,
Lockheed, AT&T, Holiday Inns, Young Presidents’ Organization (YPO), the United
States Armed Forces, and UNESCO. The Hersey/Blanchard Situational Leadership
approach to management has been incorporated into the training and development
programs of Mobil Oil, Caterpillar, Union 76, IBM, Xerox, The Southland Corporation,
and numerous fast growing entrepreneurial companies. In his role as management
consultant, Dr. Blanchard teaches seminars across the country.
Kenneth Blanchard & Spenser Johnson – THE ONE MINUTE MANAGER
64
Dr. Spencer Johnson is the Chairman of Candle Communications Corporation, and an
active author, publisher, lecturer and communications consultant. He has written more
than a dozen books dealing with medicine and psychology, and has over three million
copies of his books in print.
Dr. Johnson’s education includes a degree in psychology from the University of
Southern California, an M.D. degree from the Royal College of Surgeons in Ireland, and
medical clerkships at Harvard Medical School and the Mayo Clinic.
He has been Medical Director of Communications for Medtronic, a pioneering
manufacturer of cardiac pacemakers, and Research Physician for the Institute For
Interdisciplinary Studies, a medical-social think-tank in Minneapolis. He has also served
as a consultant in communications for the Center for the Study of the Person, Human
Dimensions in Medicine Program; and to the Office of Continuing Education at the
School of Medicine, University of California in La Jolla, California.
One of his recent books, The Precious Present, has been praised by the eminent
psychologist Dr. Carl Rogers, and by Dr. Norman Vincent Peale, who states, “What a
change might take place if everyone would read this book and apply the principles it
teaches.”
The One Minute Manager, like all the other books Dr. Johnson has written, reflects his
continuing interest in helping people to experience less stress and better health through
better communications. Dr. Johnson and Dr. Blanchard have also produced, in
conjunction with CBS-Fox-Video, The One Minute Manager videotape.

FLY THE RAIN

2008-12-09T12:58:00.002+05:30

This is a work of fiction. The characters and events described in this book are imaginary and resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Published by Robert Burton Robinson
FIRST EDITION
April 2008
RBRbooks.com
Copyright © 2008 Robert Burton Robinson.
Some rights reserved. For details, follow this link:
Creative Commons License
ISBN: 978-0-9798402-7-2
Books by
ROBERT BURTON ROBINSON
Greg Tenorly Mystery Series:
Bicycle Shop Murder
Hideaway Hospital Murders
Illusion of Luck
Fly the Rain
Hi,
I hope you like Fly the Rain, and will send it to your friends. You have permission to make copies of the eBook, print it for your own use, and send it to anyone and everyone.
You can even add the book to your website as long as you give me credit for writing the book, include the link to my site, and include the copyright information. This book is protected under U.S. Copyright Law and the Creative Commons license. For details, go to:
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/.
Thanks for reading!
Robert Burton Robinson
**********
SYNOPSIS
When Greg Tenorly gets an invitation to his dad’s 75th birthday party, Cynthia convinces him to go, and to use the occasion to finally make things right with his estranged father.
But the war of words Greg is dreading becomes the least of his worries after he and his family cross paths with a cold-blooded killer.
**********
FLY THE RAIN
BY ROBERT BURTON ROBINSON
Chapter 1
Jason had been sitting alone at his table, staring at the tall, platinum blonde for an hour. His imagination ran wild with thoughts of kissing her full lips while his hands explored her lean, muscled body. Tonight he didn’t need the whiskey to warm him up. But he kept drinking it anyway.
She stepped away from the mike, sat her acoustic guitar on its stand, and walked down from the small stage.
Jason beat all the other losers to the bar and sat down beside her.
“You must be pretty thirsty after all that beautiful singing.”
How many times had she heard that line? But at age 33, she’d probably heard every pickup line known to man. “Yeah,” she said, giving him a quick glance. He wasn’t a bad looking guy. Probably a couple of inches shorter than her. At six-foot-two, she was accustomed to that. But a lot of men couldn’t deal with her height. They liked to be the tall one in the relation-ship. Not that she’d had many relationships. Mostly one-nighters.
Without her saying a word, the bartender sat a glass of ice down in front of her, and poured her a can of Diet Coke.
“Thanks, Joe.” She took a sip as he walked away.
“I’m Jason.”
“Sondra,” she said, looking straight ahead as she took another sip.
“I really enjoyed your music—especially that last song. Did you write it yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. It was sad, but moving. You’ve got talent.”
Here we go, she thought. And I suppose you’re a talent agent or a record producer, or you’ve got a friend in the business. And you’d be more than happy to get me a record deal—assuming I’d be willing to go with you right
now to some sleazy motel.
“I’m sick of this business. In fact, you just heard my last performance. First thing Monday morning I’m going out to find me a real job. One that will pay the bills.”
“Really? Hey, I might have a job for you.”
She did a quick scan. The expensive suit screamed corporate. So, if this guy worked for some big company, maybe he really could get her a job. There were lots of big companies in Houston. And she was good with a comput-er—sort of. Didn’t know much about Microsoft Office, but she was a wiz on the web. “What kind of job?”
“As my secretary.”
“Is this where you normally find your secretaries—in a bar?”
“Well, no. But there’s something about you. I think you’d be perfect.”
She knew she was probably getting her hopes up for nothing. But when you’re lost in the darkness of depression you tend to walk toward the light.
**********
Judging by the neighborhood and the size of his house, Sondra figured Ja-son to be near the bottom of his company’s organizational chart. But as long as he could hook her up with a decent job, she’d be happy.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, offering his black leather couch. “What can I get you—a Budweiser? Wine cooler?” He opened the refrige-rator door, waiting to fill her order.
“Diet Coke.”
“Is that all you drink? No booze?”
“I like to stay clear-headed.”
“I don’t. The only diet drink I have is water.”
“That’ll be fine.”
He grabbed a bottled water and a beer. “So, how do you like my place?”
“It’s nice. Now, tell me more about this job.”
Jason walked around the large glass-topped coffee table to the other end of the couch, and reached out and handed her the water. Then he tipped his beer bottle back and gulped down a third of it. “Well, of course, you’d have to apply for the job.”
“And then you’d hire me?”
He sat the beer bottle down on the coffee table. “Look, you’re not really serious about changing careers, are you? I mean, you’re just too good at your music.”
“You got a job for me or not?”
“Well, sure, if that’s what you really want.”
“You’re lying.”
He was half-drunk, and couldn’t keep himself from smiling. “Okay—you got me.”
“I should have known better.” She slammed the water bottle down on the coffee table.
“Aw, come on, Baby. I just couldn’t resist. You can’t blame a guy for going after your hot bod.”
She felt so foolish. Here she was—way out in the suburbs with this creep. And her car was downtown at the bar.
He slid over closer to her. “I’m sure guys are always wanting to get into your pants. Hey, I don’t mind paying.”
Before she could back away, he clamped his arms around her and tried to kiss her.
She turned her head, and tried to wrestle free.
But he was a strong drunk.
Then she felt her bra unhook. One of his hands was playfully working its way around to the chest.
She slammed her forehead downward into his nose.
He screamed, and released her.
She jumped up and ran for the front door. Then she remembered her purse. It was on the couch beside him. She would need money for a bus or a taxi. Besides, the purse had information she didn’t want him to get his hands on.
She ran back to the couch. He was still moaning and holding his bloody nose with both hands. She snatched up the purse and turned to go. But suddenly his hands were grabbing her from behind.
“You’re not going anywhere. You broke my nose! You owe me,” he seethed.
“Let go of me. I don’t owe you anything. You owe me an apology. Get your nasty hands off me!”
Sondra tried with all her strength to pull away, but only managed to pull him along with her.
He spun her around. “You can’t get away from me.” He laughed at her.
She spit in his face.
He became enraged and slapped her hard. “So, you like it rough, huh?”
She fired her knee up in between his legs, fully intending to launch his groin to the moon.
He cringed, and loosened his grip, but not fully, as she had expected. Must be numb from all that alcohol, she thought.
“This will be a lot better for both of us if you’ll just settle down and coope-rate,” he said. “You’re not gonna get away without giving me what I want. So, you might as well give in now. Just relax and enjoy.”
“Well…okay. Whatever. I’ve done worse guys than you, I guess” she said calmly.
“I’m sure you have.”
“Let’s just get it over with.” She reached down and began to unbuckle his belt.
“There you go,” he said, easing his grip on her.
“I want to go down where the action is,” she said, slowly dropping to her knees as she unzipped his pants.
“Oh, Baby.” He let his arms fall to his sides.
She pulled his pants and his boxers down to his ankles.
“I knew you were gonna be good,” he said under his breath. He closed his eyes in anticipation.
She jumped to her feet.
He opened his eyes just as she shoved him in the chest with both hands. He tried to catch himself by stepping backwards, but his feet were tangled in his pants. He now realized that she had tied his belt snuggly around his ankles. In the split-second that passed as he fell, he remembered the glass-topped coffee table behind him. He wasn’t sure how close he was. But if he landed on top of it and the glass broke, his body could be cut in half. He reached back with both hands to try to break his fall.
Then he realized that his butt was getting close to the floor and had not touched the table. His back had missed the table too. Maybe he would be okay. Then he would untie his feet, catch her and beat her face to a bloody pulp.
But then his head hit the table—like a watermelon that fell out of a shop-ping cart onto the concrete grocery store floor. Cleanup needed on Aisle Thirteen.
His body lay flat on the plush carpet, except for his head, which was tilted up at a ninety-degree angle, oozing blood down the side of the coffee table.
“Please. Help me,” he gasped. He couldn’t feel his arms or legs.
She said nothing.
“Call 911. Hurry,” he begged, choking.
Sondra’s eyes were cold as steel. “I’m not calling anybody. I’m not your secretary.”
She picked her purse up from the floor and casually walked out. She knew
he would be dead before anybody found him. Oh, well, she thought. People get drunk and then they get clumsy. And sometimes they fall down and kill themselves.
**********
“Hello?”
“Is this Greg Tenorly?”
“Yes.”
“Greg, this is Norma. Sorry for calling so late.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” But it really wasn’t okay. He was just being polite. The sexy redhead lying next to him in bed was his new wife, Cynthia. And she looked more tempting than a chocolate-dipped ice cream cone—his favo-rite dessert. And who was this Norma anyway? Then he remembered. His parents’ long-time best friends were Vic and Norma Valleydale.
“It’s about your father.”
Greg felt pangs of guilt. He and his father had been estranged for years. Now the old man must have died. Greg should have tried harder to some-how make amends. “What about him?”
“I’m throwing him a big birthday party. Your dad’s about to turn 75, you know. I already sent you an invitation with the details, but I thought I’d better give you a call too.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Greg, I know you don’t want to come, but I wish you’d at least think about it.”
“Uh, sure. I’ll think about it. Well, thanks so letting me know, Norma.”
“And one other thing.”
“Yes?”
“Your dad and I got married.”
“What? To each other?”
“Yes. Last month.”
“But…what about Vic?”
“Greg…Vic died two years ago.”
“Oh. I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Norma.”
“So, now I’m your stepmother.”
“Well…congratulations.” Greg wasn’t sure how he felt about it. But, what did it matter? He never saw his father. He’d never see his new stepmother either. No big deal.
“Greg, you really need to come home every once in a while.”
Great, he thought. Now that she’s my stepmother she thinks she has the right to boss me around. “Yeah. I haven’t been back in years.” But Orange was no longer home to him.
“Anyway…I hope you’ll come.”
When he hung up, he was ready to put the call out of his mind, and make love to his wife. But Cynthia wanted to know all about Norma and Vic and Orange and Greg’s dad.
Greg just hated bedtime phone calls.
Chapter 2
Sondra Crench kicked a roach out of her way as she walked into her tiny apartment and sat down at her old laptop. It was after midnight. So, she figured her new friend, Jason, was already dead. And so were her hopes of landing a secretarial job in time to keep her apartment. Rent was due on Tuesday, and she had just enough money to pay it. But then she’d have no money for food or gas or anything else.
Maybe it was time to go home for a while. Surely she could put up with her mother for a few weeks while looking for work.
She opened her Favorites list and clicked on the link for The Orange Lead-er. Sondra had not been back to her home town in a long time, but she liked to keep up with what was going on there. Occasionally, she’d see one of her old classmates in a wedding announcement. Those people led real lives, and held real jobs. As a working musician, she lived in a completely different world. She had more in common with actresses than a secretaries.
She checked the Classifieds. Nurses wanted. Nope. Part-time receptionist. Not enough pay.
Then she saw a full-page ad announcing the upcoming Grand Opening of Billy-Eye’s Arcade and Dance Barn. Open Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights, 6:00 PM to Midnight. For ages 12-20. Free soft drinks and popcorn. Live band. Five bucks to get in. Only twenty-five cents for arcade games. Sounded pretty cool for kids. She wished there had been such a place when she was growing up there.
But what really caught her eye was the note about auditions for a house band. It would play two hours a night, and earn $2,000 per week. Divided by four band members…Sondra could actually live on that! Not very well—but she could get by. And besides, her band could do other gigs dur-ing the week to supplement it.
Only problem: the auditions were beginning next Friday night—and she didn’t have a band. Her all-girl group, Red Hot Curling Iron, had split up months ago. And there was no possibility of a reunion. Not after she broke the middle finger of her lead guitarist. But that thing would never point at her again.
The day for audition registration was Monday. She would go to Orange, sign up, and then put a band together. She was so excited that she wouldn’t
be able to sleep. Maybe she’d write a song or two. Her dream of making a living as a musician was not dead after all.
First thing in the morning, she would go by Goldie’s Pawn Shop and get her Stratocaster and Fender amp out of hock. Then she’d make the two-and-a-half hour drive to Orange.
**********
“Judy, I need a another plate of biscuits.” He scarfed down two more bacon strips, followed by a large chunk of scrambled eggs. Billy-Eye Buttard didn’t weight 330 pounds from eating granola and yogurt. For him, it was bacon, eggs, hash browns, grits and biscuits seven days a week.
He blamed his father for his enormous size. If Billy Bob Buttard had gone into construction or the hardware business, maybe his son wouldn’t have learned such bad eating habits.
But who could resist his father’s special recipe biscuits? Everybody in Orange loved them. Folks would come to the restaurant and stuff them-selves with them for breakfast, and then buy a couple dozen to take home. The Buttard Biscuit, better known as simply The Biscuit, was the most pop-ular breakfast spot in town.
“You’re late.” Billy-Eye glared at his two grown sons as they approached his booth. Because of a ‘lazy eye’ condition that was never properly treated, he appeared to be looking out the window with his left eye while watching his sons with the right. It was the inspiration for a cruel childhood nickname that stuck. His real name was William I. Buttard. Nobody seemed to know what the ‘I’ stood for. But it must have been something even worse than being called ‘Billy-Eye.’ “You were supposed to be here at 6:00.”
“Don’t blame me,” said Lenny. “I was ready to go. But Craig wouldn’t get out of bed.”
“I had a date last night,” said Craig.
“You have a date every Friday night,” said Lenny.
“Yeah, but this one was special.” Craig grinned proudly and winked at Lenny.
“I don’t care,” said Billy-Eye. “If you two are serious about being partners with me on The Barn then you’ve got to get your act together—in a hurry. Otherwise, I’ll just hire somebody else—somebody I can depend on.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” said Craig. “You’re right. It won’t happen again.”
Billy Bob had died three months ago, leaving his son The Biscuit and a nice pile of cash to start his own venture. The restaurant brought in a good profit every year. But that was his dad’s success. Billy-Eye wanted to build a business of his own—from the ground up.
Judy delivered a fresh plate of biscuits. “What will you boys be having this morning? The usual?”
Before either of them could speak, Billy-Eye said, “They’re too late for a regular breakfast, Judy. They’ll just be having biscuits and coffee. Thanks.”
“Look, Boys, we’re opening next Friday night, and we’re nowhere near ready. Craig, I need you to take the truck over to Beaumont and pick up the popcorn machines and those other three arcade games.”
“I doubt either one of them are open on Saturday.”
“Well, if not, you can help Lenny with the plumbing. We’ve still got three new toilets to install in the men’s bathroom.”
Craig frowned. “Can’t you just hire a plumber to do that?”
“No.”
“I know you can afford it,” said Craig.
“That’s not the point, Boy. You need to get your hands dirty. So far, you don’t have a durn thing invested in this project. And yet you expect me to make you a partner.”
“But you know I don’t have any money, Daddy” said Craig.
“That’s why you need to invest some labor. Am I right?”
Craig wanted to make his fortune, and buy his own house and a fancy car or two and a powerful speed boat. He was 30 years old, and yet he had no education beyond high school, no valuable skills and no assets. “Yes, Sir. Your right. I’ll do whatever you say.”
**********
Norma handed Ralph a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. Then she sat down across from him and began to make notes in her spiral notebook.
“Thanks, Honey.” He took a sip and picked up the newspaper. Then he lo-wered it just enough to see her over the top. “Now, you promised you wouldn’t make a big fuss.”
“I’m not.”
“Just a few friends, right?”
“And Ed, of course,” she said.
“Good.” He returned to his paper for only a moment. “What about Greg? You didn’t invite him, did you?”
“Well…he is your son.”
“Norma! You know I don’t want to see him. And he don’t want to see me.”
“Well, I just thought I’d let him decide. How do you know he wouldn’t want to come? It’s your 75th birthday. It’s special.”
“I ain’t got no use for that holier-than-thou do-gooder. He thinks I’m the Devil. And maybe I am. But I don’t need him telling me so.”
“No, of course you’re not the Devil. And maybe he’s changed. How would you know? You haven’t talked to him in…how many years?”
“It don’t matter, Norma. He’ll never change. He’s been that way ever since that preacher got a hold of him. Barbara thought church would be good for him, so she started taking him. But by the time he was a teenager, I couldn’t hardly stand to be around the kid. I was glad when he went off to college. We finally had some peace in the house. Then Barbara had her ac-cident…”
“I know. He should have been sympathetic. But instead, he blamed you. I remember.”
“I’ll never forgive him for that.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think you could—if he’d meet you halfway.”
He reached across the table and gently held her hand. “Look, Honey, I know you always want everything to turn out right, and for everybody to be happy. But believe me, it just ain’t gonna happen.”
“He’s got a new wife, you know. Her name is Cynthia. You might really like her.”
He released her hand. “Not if she’s anything like that first wife of his.”
“And what if they have kids? You’d want to see your grandkids, wouldn’t you?”
He picked up the newspaper and pretended to read it.
“Of course you would. And so would I.”
Ralph Tenorly looked over at his new wife and longtime friend. He could see how much she wanted grandchildren. Norma and her first husband, Vic, had never been able to have kids. “Okay. I don’t care. He can come if he wants to.”
Norma smiled.
“But don’t get your hopes up.”
Chapter 2
Sondra Crench kicked a roach out of her way as she walked into her tiny apartment and sat down at her old laptop. It was after midnight. So, she figured her new friend, Jason, was already dead. And so were her hopes of landing a secretarial job in time to keep her apartment. Rent was due on Tuesday, and she had just enough money to pay it. But then she’d have no money for food or gas or anything else.
Maybe it was time to go home for a while. Surely she could put up with her mother for a few weeks while looking for work.
She opened her Favorites list and clicked on the link for The Orange Lead-er. Sondra had not been back to her home town in a long time, but she liked to keep up with what was going on there. Occasionally, she’d see one of her old classmates in a wedding announcement. Those people led real lives, and held real jobs. As a working musician, she lived in a completely different world. She had more in common with actresses than a secretaries.
She checked the Classifieds. Nurses wanted. Nope. Part-time receptionist. Not enough pay.
Then she saw a full-page ad announcing the upcoming Grand Opening of Billy-Eye’s Arcade and Dance Barn. Open Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights, 6:00 PM to Midnight. For ages 12-20. Free soft drinks and popcorn. Live band. Five bucks to get in. Only twenty-five cents for arcade games. Sounded pretty cool for kids. She wished there had been such a place when she was growing up there.
But what really caught her eye was the note about auditions for a house band. It would play two hours a night, and earn $2,000 per week. Divided by four band members…Sondra could actually live on that! Not very well—but she could get by. And besides, her band could do other gigs dur-ing the week to supplement it.
Only problem: the auditions were beginning next Friday night—and she didn’t have a band. Her all-girl group, Red Hot Curling Iron, had split up months ago. And there was no possibility of a reunion. Not after she broke the middle finger of her lead guitarist. But that thing would never point at her again.
The day for audition registration was Monday. She would go to Orange, sign up, and then put a band together. She was so excited that she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Maybe she’d write a song or two. Her dream of making a living as a musician was not dead after all.
First thing in the morning, she would go by Goldie’s Pawn Shop and get her Stratocaster and Fender amp out of hock. Then she’d make the two-and-a-half hour drive to Orange.
**********
“Judy, I need a another plate of biscuits.” He scarfed down two more bacon strips, followed by a large chunk of scrambled eggs. Billy-Eye Buttard didn’t weight 330 pounds from eating granola and yogurt. For him, it was bacon, eggs, hash browns, grits and biscuits seven days a week.
He blamed his father for his enormous size. If Billy Bob Buttard had gone into construction or the hardware business, maybe his son wouldn’t have learned such bad eating habits.
But who could resist his father’s special recipe biscuits? Everybody in
Orange loved them. Folks would come to the restaurant and stuff them-selves with them for breakfast, and then buy a couple dozen to take home. The Buttard Biscuit, better known as simply The Biscuit, was the most pop-ular breakfast spot in town.
“You’re late.” Billy-Eye glared at his two grown sons as they approached his booth. Because of a ‘lazy eye’ condition that was never properly treated, he appeared to be looking out the window with his left eye while watching his sons with the right. It was the inspiration for a cruel childhood nickname that stuck. His real name was William I. Buttard. Nobody seemed to know what the ‘I’ stood for. But it must have been something even worse than being called ‘Billy-Eye.’ “You were supposed to be here at 6:00.”
“Don’t blame me,” said Lenny. “I was ready to go. But Craig wouldn’t get out of bed.”
“I had a date last night,” said Craig.
“You have a date every Friday night,” said Lenny.
“Yeah, but this one was special.” Craig grinned proudly and winked at Lenny.
“I don’t care,” said Billy-Eye. “If you two are serious about being partners with me on The Barn then you’ve got to get your act together—in a hurry. Otherwise, I’ll just hire somebody else—somebody I can depend on.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” said Craig. “You’re right. It won’t happen again.”
Billy Bob had died three months ago, leaving his son The Biscuit and a nice pile of cash to start his own venture. The restaurant brought in a good profit every year. But that was his dad’s success. Billy-Eye wanted to build a business of his own—from the ground up.
Judy delivered a fresh plate of biscuits. “What will you boys be having this morning? The usual?”
Before either of them could speak, Billy-Eye said, “They’re too late for a regular breakfast, Judy. They’ll just be having biscuits and coffee. Thanks.”
“Look, Boys, we’re opening next Friday night, and we’re nowhere near ready. Craig, I need you to take the truck over to Beaumont and pick up the popcorn machines and those other three arcade games.”
“I doubt either one of them are open on Saturday.”
“Well, if not, you can help Lenny with the plumbing. We’ve still got three new toilets to install in the men’s bathroom.”
Craig frowned. “Can’t you just hire a plumber to do that?”
“No.”
“I know you can afford it,” said Craig.
“That’s not the point, Boy. You need to get your hands dirty. So far, you don’t have a durn thing invested in this project. And yet you expect me to make you a partner.”
“But you know I don’t have any money, Daddy” said Craig.
“That’s why you need to invest some labor. Am I right?”
Craig wanted to make his fortune, and buy his own house and a fancy car or two and a powerful speed boat. He was 30 years old, and yet he had no education beyond high school, no valuable skills and no assets. “Yes, Sir. Your right. I’ll do whatever you say.”
**********
Norma handed Ralph a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. Then she sat down across from him and began to make notes in her spiral notebook.
“Thanks, Honey.” He took a sip and picked up the newspaper. Then he lo-wered it just enough to see her over the top. “Now, you promised you wouldn’t make a big fuss.”
“I’m not.”
“Just a few friends, right?”
“And Ed, of course,” she said.
“Good.” He returned to his paper for only a moment. “What about Greg? You didn’t invite him, did you?”
“Well…he is your son.”
“Norma! You know I don’t want to see him. And he don’t want to see me.”
“Well, I just thought I’d let him decide. How do you know he wouldn’t want to come? It’s your 75th birthday. It’s special.”
“I ain’t got no use for that holier-than-thou do-gooder. He thinks I’m the Devil. And maybe I am. But I don’t need him telling me so.”
“No, of course you’re not the Devil. And maybe he’s changed. How would you know? You haven’t talked to him in…how many years?”
“It don’t matter, Norma. He’ll never change. He’s been that way ever since that preacher got a hold of him. Barbara thought church would be good for him, so she started taking him. But by the time he was a teenager, I couldn’t hardly stand to be around the kid. I was glad when he went off to college. We finally had some peace in the house. Then Barbara had her ac-cident…”
“I know. He should have been sympathetic. But instead, he blamed you. I remember.”
“I’ll never forgive him for that.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think you could—if he’d meet you halfway.”
He reached across the table and gently held her hand. “Look, Honey, I know you always want everything to turn out right, and for everybody to be happy. But believe me, it just ain’t gonna happen.”
“He’s got a new wife, you know. Her name is Cynthia. You might really like her.”
He released her hand. “Not if she’s anything like that first wife of his.”
“And what if they have kids? You’d want to see your grandkids, wouldn’t you?”
He picked up the newspaper and pretended to read it.
“Of course you would. And so would I.”
Ralph Tenorly looked over at his new wife and longtime friend. He could see how much she wanted grandchildren. Norma and her first husband, Vic, had never been able to have kids. “Okay. I don’t care. He can come if
he wants to.”
Norma smiled.
“But don’t get your hopes up.”
Chapter 3
The pews were packed at First Baptist Church, Coreyville. As part-time music minister of the church, Greg Tenorly sat in his usual place on the podium, behind and slightly to the left of the pastor. He wondered why attendance was up. It was a perfect day—seventy degrees, sunny. That had to be part of the reason. And the sermon title was ‘Forgiveness Fighters.’ People would much rather hear a sermon about forgiveness than one about Hell.
Everybody wanted to be forgiven. But when it came to forgiving oth-ers—many people fight it. The pastor said these folks were the Forgiveness Fighters. He read a scripture passage.
Then came Peter to him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times? Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee, Until seven times: but, Until seventy times seven.
When Greg heard these verses, which he knew by memory, it was like a slap in the face. How many times had he already forgiven his father? But he knew that ‘seventy times seven’ did not mean literally 490 times. The number ‘seven’ in the Bible symbolized completeness. It meant forgiving an unlimited number of times. But how could Greg ever forgive his father for killing his mother?
Maybe if Greg had been there it wouldn’t have happened. But he had moved out of the house during his first semester at Lamar Universi-ty—even though it was only forty minutes away, in Beaumont. A fellow music major had been more than happy to let Greg share the little rent house and the expenses.
Ralph Tenorly had sent his wife to the grocery store for more chips and dip. The big game was already starting, and there were no snacks in the house. But on her way back home, a pickup truck blew through a stop sign, crashing into the driver’s side of the car. Barbara was killed instantly.
Couldn’t Ralph have done without the stupid chips and dip? Or driven to the store himself?
Greg knew he needed to forgive his father. The instructions from the Bible were clear. And he would forgive him. But not today.
**********
“What did you think of the sermon, Mom?” Cynthia asked her the question every week.
“Very good,” said Beverly. “It’s so important to forgive people. Holding grudges will just eat you up inside.”
Cynthia nodded in agreement.
Greg acted as though he wasn’t listening—looking around to see if he knew anybody standing in line. Luby’s Cafeteria was always crowded at this time of day, when the church people arrived. “I’m going to have the fried Cod today.”
“I love their fried fish,” said Beverly.
“Yeah. It’s got that crunchy coating,” said Greg. “That’s what makes it so good.”
“It’s pretty fattening though,” said Cynthia. “You could get the broiled fish instead.”
“That’s okay. I don’t eat it very often,” said Greg, holding in his stomach.
They slowly made their way up to the food, filled their trays, and found a table. Once Greg had said a prayer of blessing, they began to eat.
“Greg and I have been invited to his dad’s 75th birthday party,” said Cyn-thia. “But he and his dad are not on speaking terms.”
“That’s why he didn’t come to the wedding?” said Beverly.
“Right,” said Cynthia.
“Well, how long has this been going on?” said Beverly
Greg wished that Cynthia had not brought it up. “A few years.”
“Oh, Greg,” said Beverly, “that’s terrible. You need to work things out with him—like in today’s sermon. You need to forgive each other. Life’s just too short.”
“I know,” said Greg.
“We need to go to his birthday party,” said Cynthia. “Then you’d have a
chance to sit down and talk to him.”
No, no, no! Greg wanted to scream it. But he knew Cynthia was right. It would be a waste of time trying to talk to his dad. But, for Cynthia…he would try.
**********
“This is not gonna work, Sondra,” said Val. “I said you could stay here for a few weeks, but you’re eating up all my food.”
“What?” Sondra kept her eyes on the TV, reaching into the family-sized bag to grab another potato chip. “I’ll pay you back.”
“Okay.” Val didn’t move.
“Right now?”
“Yes, right now—before you eat the whole bag.”
Sondra sat the bag down beside her on the couch, reached into her purse, and pulled out a five-dollar bill. “Here you go.”
Val snatched it out of her hand. “And from now on, buy your own food.”
“Fine. I will.”
“And I’m gonna need some money for rent and utilities.”
Sondra muted the TV. “You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. Look, I barely get by as it is. I can’t afford any extra expenses.”
“Okay. How about fifty a week?”
“Seventy-five.”
Sondra gritted her teeth. “Fine.”
“In advance.”
Sondra’s nerve endings began to tingle—the way they always did right be-fore she performed her magic act. In the blink of an eye, she could trans-form a living, breathing human into a corpse. She slipped her hand into her
purse, and felt the large, cold pocket knife. In less than a second, without even thinking, the knife would be out, the blade exposed. Val would barely see the flash of metal before it ripped into her chest and punctured her heart.
She saw Val collapse to the floor—in her mind. She would have to leave town. Her plans would be destroyed. It’s just not worth it, she thought, taking a slow, deep breath. She retrieved the seventy-five dollars from her purse and handed it to her evil witch of a mother.
**********
“Shouldn’t we test out these popcorn machines?” Lenny could almost taste the buttery stuff.
“We just ate hamburgers two hours ago,” said Craig. “And I’m sure they work just fine.”
Their voices echoed in the huge metal building that was becoming Bil-ly-Eye’s Arcade and Dance Barn.
“But what if they don’t? Daddy’s gonna be mad.”
“Okay, yeah, I guess you’re right. So, where’s the popcorn?”
Lenny’s blank look gave his answer.
“Well, I guess it was a good idea to try out these machines—so we’d realize that we don’t even have any popcorn!” He punched Lenny in the arm.
“Hey, nobody told me to buy the popcorn.”
“Well, can’t you figure out anything for yourself?”
“Hey, did you hear that?”
“Don’t try to change the subject.” But then Craig heard it too. “Somebody’s knocking.”
“I told you.”
Craig walked across the wide-open concrete floor, and unlocked and opened the door. He was going to be rude to whoever it was. It was Sunday afternoon—why was somebody bothering them? They needed to get some
work done.
Then he saw her. She was beautiful—mid to late twenties, short thick blonde hair. “May I help you?” And oh, how he wanted to help her.
“Yes. I’m here about the auditions for the house band.” She had a slight ac-cent. It was sexy, European.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Registration is tomorrow…at 1:00 PM. You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Yes. I live in Little Cypress.”
How was this possible? Craig thought he had met every available woman within a fifty-mile radius. He had dated most of them.
“So, I’ll come back tomorrow,” she said, and then turned to walk away.
The sexiest butt he’d ever seen was leaving him. “What’s your name?” he blurted out.
She stopped and turned around. “Cindy. Cindy Banya.”
He walked out to her. “I’m Craig.” He held out his hand.
“Good to meet you, Craig,” she said, shaking his hand. “So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Could I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“Okay,” she said, holding out her hand for the money.
How long has she been in this country? he wondered. “No. I meant—”
“—I know what you meant.” She grinned. “Come on—we’ll take my car.”
“Great.”
As they walked toward her little convertible, he said, “What’s the name of your band?”
“Well, I’m not actually in a band right now. I was hoping to hook up with one that needs a good drummer.”
“I like your accent. Where are you from?”
“I grew up in Dallas. My family and I just moved here a few weeks ago.”
Craig felt better. That’s why he had never met her.
“My parents are Russian.” And then, in a perfect Texas twang, she said, “But I’m a true-blue Texan.”
“Yes, you are. And a beautiful one.”
“Thank you. Now, where are we going?” she said, as they got into her car.
“You ever been to The Buttard Biscuit?”
“What’s that?”
“You’re in for a treat, Honey. It’s my family’s restaurant. Our biscuits are better than cherry pie.”
“Sounds great.”
Lenny walked out the door just in time to see his brother and some blonde driving away.
Chapter 4
Sondra arrived at 1:00 PM sharp. Billy-Eye’s Arcade and Dance Barn was lo-cated on Highway 87, north of town. She was not impressed. It was nothing but a huge commercial metal building with the name painted in big letter-ing across the front. There were about fifteen cars in the small gravel park-ing lot—mostly older models like hers.
She walked in, and saw a line of people standing at a closed office door. Clearly, they were band members waiting to register for an audition. A couple of the guys had their electric guitars strapped on their backs.
Sondra was quite familiar with Billy-Eye and his two sons. She’d eaten her share of Buttard Biscuits growing up. And she still remembered the time in high school when Craig walked up to her in the hallway and asked her for a date. She had nearly laughed in his face. He was just a kid—three grades below her.
A couple of years later, when she found out about his reputation as a stud, she wished she had accepted his offer. She would have given the little punk the ride of his life.
While she was still thinking about Craig, the office door opened, and he walked out.
He glanced at the long line of rockers. “Okay, we’re about to get started, Guys.” Then he spotted Sondra at the back of the line. The blonde six-footer was not easy to miss.
“Sondra Crench? Is that you?” He walked up to her.
“How are you, Craig?”
“Well, I’m impressed that you remember me. So, you’re here to sign up?”
“Yeah.”
He checked out the young men standing in front of her. “Are these guys with you?”
“No.”
“Well, where’s your band?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Follow me.”
She hesitated. There were at least thirty people in front of her in line.
“Come on,” he insisted.
She followed him into the office.
“Hey! That’s not fair,” somebody yelled.
“Look,” said Craig to the crowd, “I’m doing the hiring, so I will decide what’s fair. Understood?”
Nobody said a word. He closed the door.
There were four metal chairs facing a large wooden desk. Craig offered her a seat. The leather executive chair behind the desk gave Craig a superior position from which to look down on lowly band members sitting in old metal chairs in front of him.
He surprised Sondra when he grabbed one of the metal chairs for himself, and dragged it right in front of her. When he sat down their knees were nearly touching.
“It’s great to see you, Sondra.”
What’s he doing? she wondered. Is he going to register me or make a move on me? “Yeah. It’s been a long time.”
“So, what have you been doing with yourself?” He acted as if he had all the time in the world.
“Living in Houston, playing clubs. Sometimes solo, but mostly with a band. I sing lead, play rhythm guitar. Write songs.”
“I always loved it when you’d perform at the annual high school talent show. I just knew you’d get a big record contract some day.”
“Nope. Came close a couple of times. But it’s a tough business.”
“I’ll bet. So, are you living here in the Golden Triangle now, or did you come back just to audition for (he cleared his throat and used his movie
trailer voice) Billy-Eye’s Arcade and Dance Barn?”
“That’s good—you sound just like one of those announcers. I saw your ad in the paper, and thought this might be a cool gig.” He was asking too many questions. But she really wanted the job. And giving him a bloody nose was not likely to help her get it. “I’ve got plenty of work in Houston,” she lied. “But this just sounded like fun.”
“But you don’t have a band right now?”
“I can get one together before the audition. It’s not a problem. And I’m writing a couple of songs especially for this place.”
Craig smiled. Original songs for Billy-Eye’s. If they were good catchy songs, that would be a big plus. “Can’t wait to hear them. Do you have anybody in mind for your band?”
“Yeah. There’s a bass player I used to work with in Houston.”
“Have you talked to him yet?”
“Her. I left a message, but she hasn’t called me back yet.”
“So, are we talking an all-girl band?”
“Yeah.”
His face lit up. “Then I have a suggestion for you.”
“What’s that?” She didn’t really want to hear it. Nobody was going to tell her how to put her band together. She’d been in the business for fifteen years.
“Yesterday I met this girl named Cindy Banya. She’s a drummer.”
“How old is she?”
“Late twenties, I think.”
Then she’s not a girl, thought Sondra. I’m not a girl. We’re women. But, of course, Craig is just a big boy. And he’ll probably never grow up. “Have you heard her play?”
“Well, no. But I’m sure she very good.”
“She’s hot, isn’t she?”
“Uh, yeah, she is.”
“Look, Craig, I’ll give her a listen, but she’d better be a rock-solid drummer, or I’ve got no use for her.”
“Oh, I’m sure she is. And a sexy girl band would stand a much better chance of getting the job. So—“
“—I get it. When can I hear her play?”
“Tonight. I’ll set it up.”
“Okay.”
He reached across the desk, picked up a clipboard and pen, and began to study the audition schedule. “Let’s see…we want to give you a good time slot…”
“Is everybody auditioning on the same night?”
“Well, we had hoped there would be enough bands to spread them out over three nights, but—you saw the line out there. It looks like we’re going to be able to do everybody on Friday night.”
“I want to go last.”
“Okay. But the kids might be pretty tired by 11:30. And some of the younger ones might have already gone home.”
“So, is that how you win—by getting the most screams and applause from the kids?”
“Yeah. Sort of. But I make the final decision.”
“Of course.” Sondra understood. Wink, wink. If she accepted Craig’s new little plaything into her band, they would be sure to win on Friday night. But what if the kids went crazy over one of the other bands, and she was stuck with a lousy drummer? Billy-Eye might override Craig. Her band needed to be the most exciting, unique, outrageous group Orange County had ever seen.
“What’s the name of your band? Oh, I guess you don’t have one yet.”
“I’ve got some ideas.”
“Well, I don’t whether you’ve heard, but we’ve put the word out that we would prefer a band with a local-sounding name. You know, like The Sabine Rivers, or The Triangulars. Of course, you won’t want to use either of those names since I’m giving them as examples. Chances are, one of these bands will.”
Don’t worry, she thought. She’d already had something a lot better. It had just hit her. But she didn’t want to tell him yet. That would spoil the effect. “What’s the latest I can give you the name?”
“Wednesday morning. I’m going to record a radio spot that afternoon.”
“Okay.”
They exchanged cell phone numbers. He said he would call her a little later to set up a time to meet with Cindy.
She walked out the door and saw the line of losers. They don’t stand a chance, she thought.
Then she noticed a newcomer at the end of the line. She was petite, mid-twenties, long black hair. Did she bring that big red guitar, or did it bring her? Sondra had no idea whether the girl could play, but she loved her instrument. It was a Gibson ES-335 with classic 1957 humbucker pick-ups. “Nice.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s the name of your band?”
“Rainbow Bridge.”
“Y’all renamed your band for this gig, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. Dumb, huh?”
“Well, they do want something local sounding.”
Rainbow Bridge was about twenty miles from where they were standing, between Bridge City and Port Arthur. It was built in 1938, yet is still the tallest bridge in Texas.
“I don’t know where the rest of my band is. They should have been here by now.”
“I’m Sondra.” She offered her hand.
“E. Z.”
Sondra looked amused.
“No, no. Not Easy. It’s initials. E. Z. Bender.”
“Oh, I get it. You play lead guitar.”
“Right.”
“I like it.”
“Thanks.”
Sondra leaned in, and whispered, “Could you come over here for a minute?”
E. Z. nodded and followed her some thirty feet away from the line.
“Would you be interested in auditioning for my band?”
“I told you I’m already in a band,” said E. Z. “They’re just running late.”
“Yeah, but would you consider a change for the better?”
E. Z. studied Sondra’s eyes, and saw mischief—maybe even danger. “Sure.”
“Good. How about getting together tonight?”
“That’ll work. Do you already have a name for your band?”
“Yes, I do.” She waited a moment, for effect. “Orange Puke.”
“Sounds nasty.”
“Yeah.” Sondra laughed. “We’re gonna blow chunks. But in a good way.”
Chapter 5
“To be real honest, Jeffrey, you’re not making much progress,” said Greg. “Are you practicing at all?”
“Well, yeah. Mom makes me. She sits there watching to make sure I’m get-ting the right fingering and phrasing.”
“Hmm. I might need to talk to her about that.” Greg hated when kids were forced into musicianship. He had been teaching private music lessons for more than ten years, and had seen it often. Parents made their kids miser-able. It rarely worked anyway. “You don’t really want to take piano, do you?”
“No, Sir.”
“Well…”
“I wish my mom would let me take guitar lessons. That would be cool.”
“You know you’d get calluses like this.” Greg held out left hand and showed Jeffrey his fingertips.
“Yeah! My friend, Zach, has calluses. They’re hard like plastic.”
“Well, you know, it hurts for a while—until you build them up.”
“I don’t care. I love the guitar. I’ve been begging Mom to switch me from piano to guitar.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“Great! I already have a guitar and—“
“—don’t get too excited yet. We’ll see what she says.”
“Thanks, Mr. Tenorly.” He jumped up and ran for the front door. Then he stopped, rushed back over to grab his piano books, and raced out the door.
Greg’s 3:30 lesson had been cancelled, so he now had a thirty minute break. Oftentimes, during a break, he would step outside and wander down the sidewalk, observing the townspeople going in and out of the shops around Coreyville Square.
But something was bugging him. His dad’s birthday party was only a few days away. He hoped he wouldn’t regret letting Cynthia talk him into going.
Then he began to think about his uncle. He had not seen Uncle Ed in a long, long time. He hoped they would be able to just pick up where they’d left off. They always seemed to be able to do that.
Edsel Torkman was his mom only sibling. Ed had always been odd—even as a child. Kids made fun of him because he talked faster than most people could listen. Sometimes, he would begin to stutter. Then the kids would laugh out loud. But it never seemed to bother Ed.
As a child, Greg had been afraid of his uncle. But there was one thing about him that Greg had grown to admire. Edsel Torkman didn’t believe in check books and credit cards. He preferred carrying cold hard cash. And Greg always looked forward to that crisp new fifty-dollar in each Christmas and birthday card.
But that was about the extent of their relationship—until Greg bought his first car at age 16. He paid cash for the thing, from his paper route earnings. The big 1975 Ford Thunderbird had 250,000 miles on it, and weighed in at some 5,000 lbs. It got 8 miles per gallon—on the highway.
Uncle Ed had his own auto repair shop. And when he heard about Greg’s purchase, he insisted on overhauling the engine—for free.
Greg was thrilled—until he found out that Uncle Ed expected him to act as assistant mechanic. But he really wanted to get his car running. How would he ever ask a girl out if he didn’t have a car? And it turned out to be a fun learning experience. Ed was different—but he wasn’t weird. In fact, he was the coolest guy Greg had ever known.
Greg sat down at his computer, and looked up Edsel Torkman’s Auto Shop.
The phone rang ten times. Greg was about to hang up, when Ed answered.
“Torkman’s.”
“Uncle Ed?”
“Yeah. Greg, is that you?” He talked so fast and so excitedly that he sounded as if he’d polished off a gallon of coffee in less than an hour. “I mean, are you Greg? Greg Tenorly. Are you my nephew Greg Tenorly?”
“Yes, Uncle Ed, it’s—“
“—so, it’s Greg?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Well, what have you been up to, Greg? Not flipping cow patties, I’ll bet, huh?” Then the stuttering kicked in. “Not doing that, ah-are ah-are you, ah-are you, Greg?”
Then Greg remembered the key to slowing him down. Talk to him very slowly. “How are you, Ed?”
“Doing fine,” he blurted. Then he slowed his speech just a little. “I’m doing fine.”
“Well, the reason I’m calling—“
“—you got another engine that needs overhauling? We had one trick of a time doing your Thunderbird, didn’t we? When was that? Two years ago?”
It had been nearly 20 years. And Greg had never understood why his uncle used the word ‘trick’ instead of ‘heck’ or something else. He’d say things like: We’d better get tricking. Or, what in the trick are you doing? Or, I torn the trick out of my knuckle when the wrench slipped. It was like the Smurfs. The Smurfs use the word ‘smurf’’ to mean a lot of different things, depend-ing on the context. Uncle Ed used ‘trick.’
“No, Uncle Ed. It’s been quite a while since we did that.” Get to the point, Greg told himself. “Are you going to my dad’s birthday party?”
“Well, sure—if somebody invites me. Oh, trick! That’s right. Norma invited me to the party. Did you know your dad remarried?”
“I just found out.”
“Yeah. I’d like to get married someday. Someday.” He said the word a second time, as though he’d forgotten to say it the first time.
“Someday? Ed, you’re 50 years old. What’s stopping you?”
“Well…”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Angie. Well, she’s not really my girlfriend, but—“
“Angie Silverstern? She’s married, Ed.”
“No. She’s not.”
“Yeah. Don’t you remember? That’s why her name’s not Mayberly any-more—she married Clifford Silverstern. I know you used to have a crush on her, but—“
“No. She’s divorced.”
“Really? Okay. Well, then go for it, Uncle Ed.”
“I will.”
“No. Don’t put it off.”
“I won’t.”
Greg wasn’t convinced. “I’ll tell you what: I’m coming down for the birth-day party, and if you haven’t told Angie how you feel by then—“
“—then you’re gonna help me?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. It’s a deal.”
“And my new wife, Cynthia, is coming too.”
“Oh, yeah. I heard you were getting married.”
“Ed, I sent you a wedding invitation.”
“Oh, yeah. I guess that’s where I heard it.”
“I hated that you couldn’t make it. I would love for you to have been there.”
“I was planning to come…”
But you forgot, thought Greg. “It’s okay. Well, I’ll see you soon. Now walk across the street and have a talk with Angie. She does still work at the res-taurant?”
“Of course.”
“Then, go. Tonight.”
**********
Sondra strapped her guitar on, and adjusted her mike stand. “Ready?” Her voice echoed.
Cindy Banya nodded from her place at the drums.
E. Z. Bender grabbed the guitar pick from her between her lips and said, “Let’s do it.”
“Okay, let’s try ‘Crash and Burn,’” said Sondra.
Cindy knew of several songs by that name, but took a guess that Sondra wanted the one by The Bangles. A song about deliberately killing yourself in a car crash seemed like something Sondra might like to sing.
E. Z. Bender made the same guess.
Craig Buttard watched from across the huge hall. He could hardly wait to see Billy-Eye’s filled with excited, money-squandering teenagers. The free cokes and popcorn would help lure them in. And then they would spend loads of money on hot dogs, pizza, and candy.
When they had finished the song, and the reverberation had died down, he yelled, “Alright! Sounded great!” He walked toward the stage.
“Not too bad,” admitted Sondra. “But we’ve got a ton of work to do before Friday night.”
“What about your friend, the bass player?” said E. Z.
“I talked to her this afternoon,” said Sondra. “She’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Cool,” said Cindy.
Craig winked at Cindy. She smiled at him.
He had succeeded in getting her into a band. Now he would work at get-ting her into his bed.
**********
Val lit up another joint. She had such amazing thoughts while she was high. But the next day she would realize that she must have forgotten most of the details, since none of it made any sense.
She loved to sit in the wooden swing on her back porch and watch the sun go down. Sometimes the clouds were so colorful. And it was fun to look for shapes. Like the girl walking her dog.
When Sondra was five years old, she brought a puppy home and begged to keep it. Muttly never got very big—even when he was a full grown pooch. But Sondra’s father, Buster, made her start keeping him on a leash after that night he came home drunk and tripped over him.
Buster always came home drunk on Friday and Saturday nights. Not on Sunday nights, though. Sunday was the Lord’s day, he’d say. This was iron-ic, since Buster never had much use for church or the Lord.
Sometimes Sondra would get busy with her friends and forget to feed Mut-tly. By the end of the day, he’d be alternately crying and growling, and wouldn’t stop until somebody fed him.
One particular Friday night, while Sondra was attending an out-of-town football game, Buster came home drunk and heard Muttly whining. He was determined to teach Sondra a lesson, and to fix the problem once and for all. So, he staggered into the back yard and took care of it.
When Sondra finally made it home, at around midnight, she went to the back yard to feed Muttly. She opened the big plastic container that was next to his little doghouse, scooped out a serving and poured it into the bowl while calling his name softly. There was no response.
Sondra knelt down and looked inside the doghouse. By the light of the moon, she could see that he was gone. She noticed his leash, latched to the doghouse, as always. But it was pulled tight. She began calling his name again, as she felt along the leash, which led her upward. Her stomach be-gan to knot. The leash was pulled taut, over the five-foot fence.
She peeked over the top, and to her horror, saw her beloved pet hanging by his collar. She pulled him up quickly and took his lifeless little body in her arms, and cried for twenty minutes.
How could this have happened? She knew exactly how it happened.
She cried herself to sleep and didn’t get out of bed until Saturday after-noon.
That night, when Buster came home drunk, he had a terrible accident. It appeared that he lost his footing at the top of the front porch steps, and fell backward. His head hit the concrete sidewalk like a bag of ice thrown from a third story window.
Buster Crench would never again harm an innocent, defenseless creature.
Chapter 6
“Edsel?” said Angie.
“Yeah?” he said, from under the Oldsmobile.
“Dinner is served.”
“Aw, Angie, you shouldn’t have done that.”
“Well, what I’m I supposed to do? Let you starve?”
Edsel and Angie went through this at least two or three nights a week. He normally walked over to Angie’s restaurant for dinner. But some nights he’d lose track of time.
Angie’s Country Fried Two-Step served man-sized homestyle meals. And incredible desserts. People would drive all the way from Deweyville, about twenty-five minutes north of Orange, just for a taste of Angie’s cherry pie—topped with Blue Bell ice cream, of course.
Her father, Herman Mayberly, had done nothing but gripe since he retired and let Angie take over the restaurant. She had spent thousands of dollars renovating the place, adding a small dance floor and a little stage. And he could not understand why she had to change the name. Mayberly’s. It was the family name. And—it sounded like neighborly. How could you go wrong with a name like that?
A local country band provided live dance music every Friday and Saturday night. The youngest band member was 48. The rest of the week, people had to make do with the jukebox.
She had tried to explain her reasoning to her father. Angie’s was to remind everybody that she was now running things. Country Fried let people know that they were still serving homestyle food. And Two-Step was, of course, short for Texas Two-Step, a popular country/western dance. Herman thought the dance floor was a particularly stupid idea. It’ll cost too much, he said, and it’s a waste of space. If she was going to enlarge the building, it should be to accommodate more tables.
“Come on, now,” said Angie. “It’s after 8:00.”
“I’m coming.”
He stood up, walked over to the sink, grabbed the bar of Lava soap, and began to lather up his greasy hands and arms.
Angie liked to stay and talk with him while he ate. They had been friends since she was in high school. He was eight years older than her. And even at 42, she still looked like a teenager to him. He figured her curly brown hair would never turn gray. His, on the other hand, was beginning to.
He was about to sit down when he noticed that something was not right. “What’s this? Where’s my chicken fried, chick-chicken fried, chicken fr-fried steak?”
Usually, Angie’s mere presence was enough to calm his stuttering. But not if he got upset.
“You shouldn’t be eating fried food every night, Edsel. It’s not good for you. This grilled chicken is healthy. Try it.”
He sat down at the little table, cut a piece and put it in his mouth. “Yeah, that’s pretty good.” Then he noticed that something else was missing too. “But what about the gravy? That’s my favorite part, Angie.”
“No, you see, you don’t need gravy with grilled chicken.”
“Maybe you don’t.”
“I’m just looking out for you, Edsel.”
“I know. And I appreciate it. Sorry for being grouchy about it.”
He took a bite of green beans, and some corn. Then he washed it down with iced tea.
She sat down across from him. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you—did you get an invitation to Ralph’s birthday party?”
“Yep.”
“Are you going? You know it’s his 75th.”
“I know. Yeah, I’m planning to.” Then he remembered. “And Greg’s com-ing!”
“Really? How do you know?”
“He called me today. And that boy hasn’t stepped foot in Orange in—I don’t know how long.”
“Well, that’s going to be…quite a reunion.”
“I know. There’s gonna be fireworks. He and his daddy are both so bull-headed.”
“Edsel…do you have a date for the party?”
“A date?” She might as well have asked if he had a million dollars in his pocket.
“Because…I don’t.” She smiled.
“Oh. I see. You want to go together. Okay.”
It seemed like a good time for Ed to tell Angie how he really felt about her. How he wanted to take her into his arms. How he wanted to marry her.
But, no, he thought, not while he was wearing greasy work clothes.
Ed was almost always wearing greasy work clothes.
**********
“Sondra,” Val called out. “There’s someone here to see you.”
“Who is it?”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Mitch,” said the young man.
“It’s Mitch,” she yelled.
Sondra didn’t know any Mitch.
When she reached the front door, Val gave her a look that said, don’t invite him in.
“Hello, Sondra,” said Mitch.
“Do I know you?”
“No. But I know you. And we need to talk.”
Sondra wanted to tell the punk to get lost. But she was curious. She opened the screen door and walked out onto the porch. “What’s this about?”
Mitch stepped closer to her and whispered, “I live across the street from Jason.”
She gave him a blank stare.
“You know—Jason. The man you killed in Houston.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never killed anybody.”
“I saw you come home with him Friday night. Then, a little later, I saw you leave.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“And then, on Saturday night, some of his friends showed up at his house for their poker game. But he didn’t answer the door. And they couldn’t reach him by phone. Yet his car was in the driveway. So, they called the police.”
“Well, that’s a shame. But it has nothing to do with me.”
“Look,” he said, grinning slyly, “I know it was you. I overheard one of the men saying that Jason had planned to go by Joe’s Bar on the way home from work Friday night. So, I went to the bar and asked a few questions. Joe, himself, told me that you performed there on Friday night, and that you left with Jason.”
“Oh—that Jason. Yeah, I remember him now. He seemed pretty depressed. But I didn’t go home with him. We just walked out of the bar together. Then we went our separate ways.”
Now Mitch didn’t look as confident.
“So, what were you going to do?” said Sondra. “Why didn’t you report me to the police?”
“Well, I…”
“You were planning to blackmail me, weren’t you?”
Mitch stammered.
“How old are you?” She asked the question as though she were a school-teacher talking to a third grader.
“Twenty,” he answered dutifully.
Sondra smiled. “Well, you’re a good-looking 20 year-old.”
“Thanks.” He nearly blushed. He had not anticipated this kind of attention from the hot blonde.
“You want to go get a cup of coffee or something?”
“Sure.”
“Where’s your car?”
“Repossessed. I took the bus.”
“You live you with your parents, don’t you?”
He hesitated. “Yeah.”
“No problem. We’ll take my car.”
**********
“Yeah, you’re right, Sondra.” Mitch laughed. “This tequila is much better than coffee.” He stumbled across the uneven parking lot, kicking a few loose shells, nearly falling down.
In Southeast Texas, shell is often used for driveways and parking lots, as a less expensive alternative to asphalt or concrete.
He stared into the darkness. It was nearly midnight. “Where is the boat? I can’t see any boats.”
“That’s because you don’t have the flashlight. Come over here,” said Son-dra. “And keep your voice down.”
“Why? There’s nobody around here… Is this the one? It doesn’t even have a motor.”
“We don’t need a motor. We’ve got paddles. See?”
“Aw, man. I don’t want to paddle. I just want to drink some more of this stuff.” He held up the bottle of tequila. “And make sweet, hot love to you, Baby.”
“I’ll do the paddling. Get in.”
“And I’ll do the making…I mean the loving…I mean, yeah, I’ll get in.” He nearly lost his balance before sitting down. “I’m ready to shove off, Cap-tain.” He saluted her forcefully, accidentally poking himself in the eye with a finger.
“Are you sure you’re seaworthy?”
He obviously was not.
“Sir, yes, Sir. I am, Sir.” He saluted again.
As she rowed the little boat out into Sabine River, Mitch continued to guz-zle the alcohol.
Finally Sondra pulled the paddles into the boat.
“Come here, Baby. I’ve got a big surprise for you,” he said.
“Oh, really,” she said playfully, as she approached him. But instead of sit-ting in front of him, she slipped past him and sat down behind him, facing his back.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m about to make your dreams come true,” she said.
“Yahoo!”
“Shush!”
He lowered his voice. “Wow. The sound really echoes out here, echoes out here, doesn’t it?”
She reached around from behind him, and unbuckled his belt.
“Okay. I like it so far.”
Sondra took the empty bottle out of his right hand, and set it down. Then she gently pulled both of his hands around to his back. He could feel her inner thighs with his fingertips.
“Very nice,” he said.
He couldn’t tell exactly what she was doing with his belt, but suddenly he realized that his hands were tied together. He could no longer touch her legs. “Hey, why did you do that?”
“Be patient.” She began to massage his chest with both hands. He seemed to forget that his hands were tied.
She worked her fingers downward and unbuttoned his jeans. Then she un-zipped them.
“Oh, Baby.” He was hyperventilating with excitement.
“Now, stand up—very carefully, so I can pull your pants down.”
But he did not follow her instructions. He jumped up, immediately losing his balance.
All it took was the slight nudge of her left elbow to send him overboard.
“Help! I can’t swim—my hands are tied!”
“Maybe this will help.” She picked up the tequila bottle and threw it at him. When it hit his skull, it cracked. Not the bottle—the skull.
His cries for help ended abruptly, and he disappeared into the dark water.
Lucky throw, she thought.
Chapter 7
There was a soft knock at Greg and Cynthia’s bedroom door.
They froze in place, moving only their eyes—to check the glowing numbers on the alarm clock. It was nearly 1:00 AM.
“How late do we have to wait to make sure we don’t get interrupted?” whispered Greg in frustration.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Cynthia.
Greg rolled to the side, and Cynthia got up, slipped on her robe, and went to the door.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Honey,” said Beverly, “but I’m having trouble going to sleep. Do you have any more of those over-the-counter sleeping pills?”
“I think so, Mom. Just a second.”
Cynthia went into the bathroom, and checked the medicine cabinet. She found the bottle of pills, and took it to her mother. “Hope this helps.”
“I’m sure it will. Sorry I woke you up.”
“It’s okay, Mom.” Cynthia closed the door, and took off her robe. She slid between the sheets, and snuggled her naked body up against Greg’s. “I’m sorry, Sweetie.”
“Baby, you know I love your mom, but—“
“—I know. It really spoils the mood when she does that.”
“It’s not just when she comes to the door. It’s knowing that she could knock at any moment. And as much as you turn me on, it really…”
Cynthia had begun to nibble on his ear.
Greg forced himself to continue. “We’ve got to do something about this…”
Cynthia slung her leg across him, and got on top. Then she gave him a hot, moist kiss.
His senses were overwhelmed by her mouth, her hands, her smooth warm body. He didn’t even care that she had purposely derailed his train of thought.
She whispered into his ear, “I want to have your baby, Greg.”
“I know. I want to give you a baby. But, take it easy—you’re about to make me—“
“—it’s okay. It’s late. Let it go.”
Oh, God, thought Greg. What did I ever do to deserve this amazing wom-an?
**********
Billy-Eye checked his watch again. It was after 6:00. Why did they have to be late every morning? Especially this morning.
Craig and Lenny walked into The Biscuit with their heads held low. They knew they were going to be chewed out again.
Judy saw them coming in late, as usual, and shook her head, but didn’t say a word.
When Billy-Eye looked up and saw his sons standing there at his booth, he jumped up.
Lenny thought the old man was going to pull a Moe, and slam their two heads together, like Curly and Larry. They deserved it—they were his stooges. Why couldn’t they ever learn to be on time?
But instead, he grabbed one in each arm and bear-hugged the breath out of them.
“What?” said Craig, confused.
“You’re alive!” said Billy-Eye.
“Well…yeah,” said Craig.
“Come on,” said Billy-Eye. “Sit down. Let’s have a great big breakfast to-gether.”
“Okay,” said Lenny. Bring on the food.
“What’s going on?” said Craig.
Billy-Eye’s chin quivered slightly as he spoke. He was still not over the thought that one of his sons had been taken from him. “A guy dropped in for some biscuits a few minutes ago, and was saying that his brother-in-law went out early this morning for some fishing, and found a body.”
“Where?”
“The Sabine River.”
“A dead body?” said Lenny.
Craig sneered at his brother. “Well, it wouldn’t be much of a story if the man was alive, now would it, Lenny?”
“So, I was worried about you boys,” said Billy-Eye. “I assumed y’all were as-leep in your rooms when I left the house this morning. But then I started wondering.”
“Was it anybody we know?” said Lenny.
Craig punched him in the arm. “Daddy just said he thought it might be one of us. He doesn’t know who it was.”
Lenny rubbed his arm. “Oh.”
Judy brought them each a cup of coffee, and took their breakfast orders.
“Okay, now let’s get down to business,” said Billy-Eye. “Have you got the band auditions all lined up?”
“Yes, Sir,” said Craig. “We’ve got eleven bands.”
“So, you’ll do the whole thing on Friday night?”
“Yes, Sir. The first band will start at 6:30, and the last one will finish just before midnight. Then I will decide on the winner and make the an-nouncement.”
“No, Sir,” said Billy-Eye. “I will decide the winner.”
No, thought Craig. What if he doesn’t pick Cindy’s group? Then Craig would never get into her pants. “I thought you were going to leave that up to me.”
“I was,” said Billy-Eye. “But then I started thinking about how easily you’re influenced. I won’t stand for any favoritism. We want the best band.”
Craig scowled at his brother. “Lenny—you rat! You told him, didn’t you?”
“Told me what?” said Billy-Eye.
“Nothing,” said Craig.
“Good. Then it’s understood. You boys will have everything in tip-top shape by the time I get there at around 5:30.”
“Yes, Sir,” they said in unison.
Craig stomped on Lenny’s foot.
Lenny grimaced, but said nothing.
“So, who’s this girl, Craig?” Billy-Eye took a sip of his coffee.
“Which one?”
Billy-Eye chuckled. His pulsating belly made the booth table shake, spilling a little of Craig’s coffee.
Craig picked up his cup and wiped the sides and bottom with his napkin. “Her name is Cindy. She’s the drummer in an all-girl band.”
“Blonde, right?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Okay. Now I know who will not win.”
“Daddy!”
Billy-Eye laughed so hard that he began to cough. Finally, he regained con-trol. “I’m kidding. The best band will win—even if it ends up being Cindy’s band. I want what’s best for the business. We’re gonna be paying a lot of money for that band. And we’ll be depending on them to develop a follow-
ing, so we can sell T-shirts and posters and all kinds of souvenirs.” He took another sip from his cup. “We’re gonna make a fortune, Boys.”
**********
“Well, I thought you were gonna just sleep all day,” said Val sarcastically. She was in her recliner, sipping one last cup of coffee before driving over to Wal-Mart to work her shift. Her favorite game show, The Price Is Right, came on at 10:00 AM, fifteen minutes before she had to leave for work.
“I needed the rest. We’ve got a long practice session today.”
“Where are y’all practicing?”
“Right here in the living room.”
“No, you’re not!”
“Why not? We won’t hurt anything. And we’ll be done before you get home.”
“You’ll play too loud, and make my neighbors mad.”
“Val, I promise—we’ll hold it down.”
“And I don’t want any guys using my bathroom. They pee all over the floor.”
“There are no guys, Mother. It’s an all-girl band.”
Val knew she would regret what she was about to say. “Alright. But you’d better take care of my house and my things.”
“I will.”
“If anything goes wrong—“
“—it won’t.
**********
Cindy Banya arrived early, and quickly set up her drums, and began to warm up.
E. Z. Bender was next. She unpacked her guitar, fired up her amp, and be-gan to work on a few riffs.
Sondra had stepped into the kitchen for a drink of water when Cindy and E. Z. suddenly went silent. She popped her head into the living room to find out why.
Boomer Hertz was standing in the doorway with her bass amp in one hand and her guitar in the other. Cindy and E. Z. were just staring at her.
Cindy was confused. Sondra had said this would be an all-girl band. Who was this guy in the sleeveless muscle shirt, with long, frizzy brown hair?
The 32-year-old had a stocky build. Her arms bulged, but her chest didn’t. She was clearly not somebody you wanted to mess with.
“Hey, Boomer,” said Sondra. “Glad you could make it.”
“Yeah, well this had better be worth the trouble,” said Boomer.
Or what? wondered Cindy. She was afraid of the answer.
Boomer sat down her amp, and plugged it into an outlet. She popped the latches on her guitar case as though she were a mechanic opening a mon-ster-sized toolbox. Then she whipped her bass out of its case, and strapped it on like King Arthur’s Excalibur.
E. Z. wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that the she-man had cut a few people down to size with the thing.
Sondra picked up her guitar. “Let’s warm up with Wilson Phillips’ Impul-sive.”
By the end of the song, all four of the women were smiling inside, and thinking the exact same thing: We’re gonna blow ‘em away.
Chapter 8
“Looks good, Boys.” Billy-Eye knew he had been taking a big chance leaving the final details for his sons to handle. He had not even visited the place all week. It was Friday, 5:30 PM—thirty minutes before the grand opening of Billy-Eye’s Arcade and Dance Barn.
The arcade room had been arranged nicely—although not the way Bil-ly-Eye would have done it. But still, it was good. The two popcorn ma-chines were ready to go. High school aged workers were ready to hand out bags of the stuff. The first group in the competition was warming up on the bandstand. A stand-alone blackboard to the right side of the drums had the name of the band written across it in white chalk: The Triangulators. Each band would be responsible for putting their name on that board.
“Glad you like it, Daddy.” Craig beamed. Finally, he had done something right.
“So, what do you think? Will we have a full house tonight?” said Billy-Eye.
“Sure,” said Lenny with a naïve smile.
“Hopefully,” said Craig. “They get in free, get to hear eleven bands, and get all the free popcorn and coke they want. I’m sure the kids have heard our radio ad.”
“Maybe we should have made the games free too,” said Lenny.
“Hey, we can’t give everything away,” said Billy-Eye. “We’re only charging a quarter for the games as it is.” He walked back out into the main hall. “Is the refrigerator all stocked up?”
“Yes, Sir,” said Craig. “It’s loaded with frozen pizzas, hot dogs, and condi-ments. And we’ve got plenty of hot dogs buns and candy.”
“And the soda fountains?”
“Ready to go.”
“And I see you got the ice machine set up.” Billy-Eye smiled. “Great. I’m proud of you boys.”
At 5:50, two of their female employees unlocked the main door and walked out. There was a line of about 150 kids waiting to get in. The two girls each
had a bag full of red plastic cups, printed with the Billy-Eye’s Arcade and Dance Barn logo.
“What’s your name?”
“Cassandra Smith,” said the first girl in line.
The employee wrote the girl’s name on a cup with a magic marker, and handed it to her. “Hang onto your cup if you want free soft drinks. If you lose it, you’ll have to pay a dollar to get a new one.”
Cassandra looked at the cup. With the cool logo, it was a free soft drink cup and a souvenir. “Okay, thanks. Are y’all about to open the doors?”
“In about ten minutes.”
**********
“Hey, where are you guys going?” Craig rushed around to the front of the group of fifteen or so kids who were heading for the door.
“We’re tired of listening to bands,” said one girl.
“Yeah, it’s getting boring, Man,” said one of the boys.
Even Craig had to admit that the current band, The Orange Peelers, was not that good. But Cindy and her band was up next. They would be the last band of the night. He needed all the kids to stay so they could cheer loudly and persuade Billy-Eye to hire her band.
Just as the kids reached the door, it opened, and four dazzling young women walked in. Each one was wearing a black, tight stretchy T-shirt and shorts, partially covered by a bright orange long-tailed tuxedo coat. The women stood five inches taller than usual in their black and orange high-heeled boots.
Without even speaking to each other, all of the would-be defectors changed their minds and turned to follow the women.
The Orange Peelers finished their last song, and began to pack up their equipment and carry it off the stage.
Craig walked over to where Billy-Eye was standing.
“So, this must be Cindy’s band,” said Billy-Eye.
“Yeah. Well, it’s not really her band. But she’s the drummer.”
“They look hot. I’ll give you that. What do they call themselves?”
Craig was about to answer when he saw Sondra take a king size bed sheet out of a bag, and drape it over the blackboard. The bold, orange lettering read Orange Puke. There were splatters of orange and green paint around the edges that were apparently supposed to be vomit. “There you go.” Craig pointed to the sheet.
“That’s the funniest name I’ve seen all night.” Billy-Eye laughed. But they’d better be awfully good if they expect to win. Because I really liked Chemical Rose.”
There’s a long road on the outskirts of Orange that’s lined with petroleum plants. It’s known as Chemical Row. If you’re visiting the city, you might want to hold your nose when you drive down it. Orangites are used to the stink. So, one of the bands thought it would be funny to name themselves Chemical Rose. When Sondra had heard the name, she wished she had thought of it herself.
Craig watched to see how the crowd was responding. By the end of their first song, the kids had gathered near the bandstand for a close look at the flashy girls on stage. Their music was somewhat better than that of the other bands, but Craig was not at all certain that Billy-Eye was being swayed. Sondra had told him that the special song she wrote would be last. She had assured him that it would give them the edge over the other bands.
Cindy went into a drum solo as the other three women took off their gui-tars and set them in their stands. They walked around behind the black-board.
“What are they doing?” said Billy-Eye.
“I don’t know,” said Craig. But he hoped it worked.
When they walked out, they looked no different. They picked up their gui-tars and strapped them on as Cindy continued to go crazy on the drums. Boomer was the first to join in. Her five-string bass rattled everything that wasn’t tied down. The standard bass guitar comes with four strings:
E-A-D-G. But her bass had a fifth string—the B below the E. Her lowest notes could be felt more than heard.
Next, Sondra joined in on rhythm guitar. Finally, E. Z. came in with a screeching lead guitar lick.
All this was a dramatic lead-in to Sondra’s song, Puking My Guts Out (All Over You). It was in E Minor, with a driving beat. Sondra sang lead, with the other three singing backup on the choruses.
Yapping with a babe in the parking lot, You had a tight butt and a really hot car. I took you for a ride and blew your mind. But you burned my tires, threw me into the fire.
I try to pretend you didn’t hurt me. Nobody hurts me. But then I get this raunchy feeling way down inside.
And I’m puking my guts out, I’m puking my guts out, I’m puking my guts out All over you, All over you.
(E. Z.’s guitar solo)
Stomped me flat without a sound. You buried my soul in the deep, deep ground. I’m blacker than black, cold as stone. I’m dead to the world since you left me alone.
I try to pretend you didn’t hurt me. Nobody hurts me. But then I get this raunchy feeling way down inside.
And I’m puking my guts out, I’m puking my guts out, I’m puking my guts out All over you. All over you, All over you, All over you,
All over you!
For the last all over you, Sondra, E. Z., and Boomer slung their guitars to their backs and stepped to the edge of the stage. They sang the last line a capella, and then, in unison, threw their heads back. Then they barfed into the crowd. And it wasn’t a tiny spew. They blew out a couple of quarts each.
The kids screamed and tried to get away from the chunky orange goo.
Billy-Eye yelled at Craig. “What is this?”
Craig was as confused and upset as his father. “I don’t know.”
“Well they just lost!”
Craig couldn’t argue. It was no use. As badly as he wanted to please Cindy, he couldn’t justify this kind of behavior. Kids might not ever come back after this.
The three women stepped back from the edge of the stage, and Cindy stood up at her drums. Then Orange Puke took a slow, dignified bow—as though they had just performed Mozart for the Queen of England.
They’ve got a lot of nerve, thought Craig.
Then the screaming died down. Some kids were beginning to laugh.
One boy yelled, “Taste it!”
“Gross!”
“No, really.”
“He’s right! It tastes like orange juice!”
“But what are these chunks?”
A boy licked his arm. “I think it’s oatmeal.”
More and more of the kids began to realize that they hadn’t really been sprayed with barf. It was just a gimmick. A cool gimmick. The coolest gimmick ever!
Orange Puke had been disgusting only five minutes earlier. Now they were the hottest thing in town.
Billy-Eye had seen and heard enough. He grabbed Craig by the shoulders. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go tell them they got the job!”
Chapter 9
Craig hurried to the stage, zigzagging his way across the floor of orange puddles. He ran up the stairs to meet Sondra. “Are you crazy?” He tried to give her a stern look, but then broke into laughter.
“Did we get the job?”
“Yes, you did.”
Boomer walked over to Sondra and gave her a high five. “Yeah, Baby.”
E. Z. grinned. She couldn’t believe Sondra’s weird idea had worked.
“How did you do it?” said Craig. “I mean, how did you get it in your mouth? You were singing, and then you just spit it out.”
Sondra smiled proudly, turned her back to him, and pointed to the white tube hanging out the top of her tux coat behind her neck. The tip of it had some of the orange stuff on it. Then she turned back around and opened the left side of her coat, revealing an old-fashioned hot water bottle.
“We mixed up some Tang and a little oatmeal. Then, when the time came, we released this little thing.” She pointed to the crimp clamp on the tube. “Then we reached back and grabbed the top of the tube like this.” She pulled it around with her left hand, and pointed it at Craig, placing her hands to the sides of her mouth. “And then smashed down on the bottle like this.” She raised her arm, ready to fire her goo gun.
Craig held up his hands and stepped back. “Okay—I get it.”
“Works like a charm,” said Sondra.
“Yes, it does,” he said. “And it was the thing that put you over the top. Daddy liked your music, but I think he liked Chemical Rose better. Then you blew chunks all over the kids, and I thought he was going to skin you alive. You really took a big chance with this stunt.”
“I like to live on the edge,” said Sondra.
“Well, I’m glad it worked out. Once Daddy saw that the kids thought it was cool, he knew they’d want to bring all their friends here. But just don’t do it again.”
“Why not?”
E. Z. stepped in. “That’s fine, right? We got the job. We don’t have to do it anymore.”
Sondra snarled at her. “It’s my call. I’m the leader of this band. So, shut up!”
“Anybody else got any comments?” She waited. “Good!”
**********
Craig led Cindy Banya into the office. The other band members had already walked out to the parking lot. He tried to focus on her face as he talked, but his eyes kept gravitating to her incredibly long sexy legs. For once, he almost wished he could look two directions at the same time—like Bil-ly-Eye. “I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your playing tonight.”
“Thanks.”
“No, really. You’re a great drummer.”
“I’m okay.” Just as Craig was about to speak, she said, “Well I’d better get home now. It’s after midnight. And I live with my parents, you know.”
“Oh, I’m sure they would understand. After all, you’re a grown woman.” And what a woman, he thought.
“I can do whatever I want, sure. But it’s about respect. My family still lives by the traditions and values of the old country.”
“Russia.”
“Yes.”
“But you were born here in the U. S.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Aw, come on—at least give me a little kiss.” Craig took her in his arms. He was about to devour her full, sweet lips.
“This is not what I want.” Cindy did not pull away. Clearly, she assumed he was a gentleman, and would be respectful of her wishes.
He did not loosen his grip. “What do you mean? I thought you liked me.”
“There is a time and a place.”
Craig released her, wondering how he could have misread her intentions. He had worked hard to get her into a band, and help that band get a job. Had she just been using him?
The door flew open. It was Billy-Eye, and he did not look happy. “You need to quit messing around, and get out here and manage your staff. This place has got to be cleaned up tonight.”
“Okay,” said Craig. But he didn’t budge.
“Now!” Billy-Eye bellowed.
**********
The house was dark. Sondra tiptoed up the stairs and across the wooden porch. When a board creaked, she winced. She slipped into the house quietly, and turned on the lamp near the door.
“It’s about time!” Val was sitting in her recliner, holding a whisky glass.
“You’re drunk,” said Sondra.
“And you’re a murderer.”
Sondra hesitated. “What are you talking about?”
Val’s mouth gradually formed a smile. Then it stretched too far—until she looked like The Joker from Batman. “I saw you leave with that boy the oth-er night. The one who came here looking for you. Mitch. The next day, the police found a body in the river.”
“So?” Sondra said, without emotion.
Val picked up the newspaper from the small table beside her chair and threw it at Sondra.
Sondra scanned the headlines.
There it was—a picture of Mitch. The article said that his parents weren’t sure why he was in Orange, and didn’t know of anyone who would want to
hurt their son. “That’s too bad. He seemed like a nice kid.” She dropped the newspaper on the couch.
“Why did you kill him, Sondra? Did he try to make a move on you?”
“What makes you think I killed him? Or that I would kill anyone?” She paused. “I guess now you think you need to turn me in.”
“Not necessarily,” she slurred.
“Because if you’re planning to call the police, I want you to tell me right now—so I can murder you, just like I murdered him.”
Val froze.
Sondra snickered. “You get crazy in the head when you’re drunk, Old Woman. I’m going to bed.”
Sondra walked past her mother. She could have easily stepped behind Val’s chair and snapped her neck. She went into her bedroom, and shut the door.
**********
Sondra had been sleeping for a couple of hours when she heard men talk-ing in the living room.
Her bedroom door burst open, and two cops rushed in.
She tried to get away, but they grabbed her, and threw her back down on the bed. Then they rolled her over and bound her wrists with a rope.
She wondered why they were using rope instead of handcuffs. “What are you doing?”
“You have the right to remain silent.”
“I know my rights. I want a lawyer.”
“Anything you say…doesn’t matter.”
“What?”
“You have the right to an attorney, but you won’t need one.”
One of the cops put a dog collar around her neck and pulled it tight.
“What are you doing? Get this thing off of me—right now!”
They tied her ankles together, picked her up, and carried her out. When they walked through the living room, Sondra saw Val still sitting in her chair.
“Mom!”
“I warned you, Honey.”
“Mom, help me!”
Val smiled, and took another sip of her whiskey.
Sondra yelled for somebody to wake up and save her. Anybody. But she couldn’t even rouse the neighborhood dogs. And by the time they got her to the back fence, she was so hoarse that her screams were mere whispers.
They laid her on the ground, and snapped a leash onto her collar. Then they picked her up, and raised her body high above their heads. The wooden fence was much taller than she remembered it. They were barely able to push her over the top.
She fell what seemed like twenty feet, before the leash pulled taut—slamming her head against the fence as gravity continued to pull her body downward. For a split second, she imagined her torso ripping free from its head.
She was surprised to still be alive. She could touch the grass—but only with the tips of her toes. Suffocation had begun.
She reached above her head up to the leash and tried to pull herself up, to release the pressure. But she was already getting too weak.
How did her hands get loose? Maybe they were really still tied. She was getting delirious as her life slipped away.
No! Don’t give in! She grabbed the collar with both hands, pulling on it with all her might.
Suddenly she woke up, gasping for air. She was in her bed.
She jumped up, and ran into the living room.
Val was asleep in the recliner.
Chapter 10
It was a warm, sunny Saturday morning in Coreyville. Greg Tenorly loved Texas weather—except for the humidity. It was a perfect day for a long drive in his big red convertible.
The large suitcase looked small in the huge trunk of his shiny 1965 Pontiac Bonneville. They could have made the trip in Cynthia’s new Toyota Avalon, but Greg preferred his glorious battleship for highway driving. The 43-year-old car was in primo condition. He closed the lid, taking care not to slam it. It had been the most beautiful thing in his life—until he met Cynthia.
“You and Bonnie ready to go?” Cynthia smiled at him from the front porch. It was a bit odd referring to a car by a woman’s name, but she had grown accustomed to it.
“As soon as I let her top down.”
Cynthia walked down the stairs, and over to the car. “Sometimes I get a little jealous.”
“Good,” said Greg. “Wouldn’t want you to take me for granted.” He winked at her.
“Y’all have a nice time,” said Beverly from the porch.
“We will, Mom,” said Cynthia.
“And Greg, good luck with your dad,” said Beverly.
“Thanks.”
They got into the car and drove away, waving goodbye.
“Can’t wait to get you alone in the hotel room,” said Greg.
“Is that the only reason we’re making this trip?” she said playfully.
“No, of course not. But it’s the main reason.”
“Well, I know it bugs you when we’re trying to make love, knowing Mom’s in the next room.”
“Yeah. And you always have to smash my face down into the pillow so she won’t hear me.”
Cynthia giggled.
“You think it’s funny, but one of these times you’re gonna suffocate me.”
She laughed.
“Go ahead and laugh, but I’m telling you…”
But it was no use. He tried his best, but could not sustain his serious tone. Her laugh was contagious.
“I think she heard us last night,” said Greg.
“Why? Did she look at you funny at the breakfast table?” She laughed harder.
“Well, yeah. I think she did.”
“No. It’s just that new high fiber cereal she trying. She nearly gags every time she puts the spoon in her mouth.”
“Have you ever tasted that stuff?”
“No.”
“It’s sawdust.”
“Oh, Greg.”
“No. It’s literally sawdust. I’m telling you.”
Cynthia laughed.
“Unscrupulous car dealers used to put sawdust in the gearbox of worn-out manual transmissions to make them shift smoothly.”
“Really? How did you know that?”
“Uncle Ed.”
“Well, maybe that’s exactly what Mom needs—maybe she’s not shifting
smoothly.”
They both laughed out loud.
Finally, after they had caught their breath, Cynthia said, “So, what’s the plan? Are we going by your dad’s house today?”
“Maybe later. First, I want to go to Edsel Torkman’s Auto Shop,” he said with fanfare.
“Okay.” She paused. “Edsel’s just a nickname, right? That’s not his real name.”
“Actually, it is.”
“Edsel. Like the stupid looking car from the fifties?”
“Hey—don’t let Uncle Ed hear you say that. And, no, I wouldn’t say they’re stupid looking. At least Ed’s weren’t. He had two of them—1958 models. One was a hardtop, and the other one was a convertible. They were amaz-ing automobiles.”
“That must be where you learned to love old cars—from your Uncle Ed.”
“Yeah, definitely.” He paused. “My grandfather’s name was Ford.”
“Oh, yeah—I remember you saying that. But I didn’t associate the name with cars. I mean, I’ve heard of other men with the first name Ford.”
“Yeah, but his last name was Torkman.”
“So?”
“You know—like torque. As in a torque wrench.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what that is, Sweetie.”
“It’s a tool. Mechanics use it when they’re tightening bolts on an en-gine—so they get just the right amount of pressure. It can cause big prob-lems if the bolts are too loose or too tight.”
“I see,” she said, not fully understanding, but not wanting to hear further explanation.
“Grandpa was a mechanic too. But they hadn’t planned to name their son Edsel. It just so happened that he was born on E-Day.”
“E-Day? You mean D-Day?”
“No. September 4, 1957. They called it E-Day. It was the day the Edsel was unveiled at Ford dealerships across the country. So, my grandfather couldn’t resist. Grandma didn’t like the name at all.”
“I can understand why.”
“But she finally gave in.”
“Too bad the Edsel ended up being such a dud.”
“It wasn’t really a dud. It just had some problems. Plus—the country was going into a recession. It was a bad year for car sales across the board. But the Edsel did have some great new features, like self-adjusting brakes—which we still have on cars today,” he said proudly.
“Wow, you’re just full of all these car facts, Honey. I had no idea.”
“Go ahead—make fun. But I used to love hearing Uncle Ed talk about this stuff.”
“Well, I can’t wait to meet him.”
**********
E. Z. Bender was waiting in the parking lot of Angie’s Country Fried Two-Step restaurant when Sondra drove up, and got out of her car. “This better not be a waste of time.”
“Well, you said you wanted to find some more regular gigs for us. And this place is pretty cool, and it does a lot of business.”
“And they only have a band for weekends, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, let’s give it a shot.”
They walked through the door and looked around. Sondra was impressed that most of the tables were occupied on a Saturday at 1:00—considering
the lousy location. It was not anywhere near a mall or a shopping center. And the business across the street was an eyesore: Edsel Torkman’s Auto Shop. She remembered Edsel. Weird guy.
“There’s the owner,” said E. Z.
Angie Silverstern was dressed just like the other waitresses. She took an order and then hurried to the kitchen window to turn it in.
“Angie?”
She spun around. “Yes?”
“Hi. I’m Sondra, and this is E. Z. We need to talk to you.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to come back later. As you can see, we’re very busy right now.”
“It won’t take long,” said Sondra.
Angie sensed the woman’s determination. “Okay—but all I can give you is two minutes.”
“No problem,” said Sondra.
“Follow me.” Angie led them to her cramped little office. “What’s this about?”
“My band has been selected as the official band of Billy-Eye’s Arcade and Dance Barn.”
“Oh—somebody was telling me about that this morning. The whole thing with the Tang.”
“Yeah, that’s us.”
“Well, congratulations.”
“Thanks. And now we’re gonna do you a big favor. We’re gonna be your band twice a week, every week—for only $500 a night.”
“What? I can’t afford that.”
“Okay, I get it—you want to negotiate. Fair enough. $400.”
“No. I don’t need another band. I’ve got the Haystack Fiddlers on week-ends, and that’s all I need.”
Sondra got up in her face. “Just tell me which nights you want us to play.”
“None.” She saw Sondra’s right arm beginning to tremble, and braced her-self for a punch in the face.
“I don’t think you’re understanding me,” said Sondra.
“Oh, she’s understanding you alright.” Edsel was in the doorway, behind Sondra and E. Z. “Now guh-guh-get out of here!”
Same old weirdo, thought Sondra. She had forgotten about the stutter. “Whatever you say, Edseloser.” She sneered at him as she slowly turned, and then strode out.
“And I’d better not ever suh-see you in here aguh-aguh.” He took a breath. “Again.” His stuttering always kicked in at the worst times.
E. Z. had not moved. She just stood there staring—first at Edsel, then at Angie.
What’s her problem, thought Edsel. He started to yell at her, but caught himself. He was surprised by her kind eyes.
E. Z. suddenly turned rushed out of the room.
He turned to Angie. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, Edsel. Thanks.” She walked over to him, and gave him a tight hug.
“Be careful. You’re gonna get grease on your clothes.”
“I don’t care.”
Angie never hugged him like this. It felt so good. Maybe this was the per-fect time to tell her his true feelings.
“Angie?” One of the waitresses called to her from just outside the doorway. “Sorry. But it’s Mr. Philbert again. He said his steak was overcooked, and he’s not going to pay for it.”
“I’m coming,” said Angie, still in his arms.
Every fiber of his body screamed for him to kiss her.
“I’ve got to get back,” she said.
**********
“I’m sorry,” said E. Z.
“No problem,” said Sondra, opening her car door. “She’ll come around.”
“She doesn’t want us.”
“Oh, I’m sure I could convince her…if it weren’t for him.”
“So, we’ll just look for something else.”
“See you in a little while. Don’t be late. We’ve got our first full show to-night. And we’re gonna knock ‘em dead, right?”
“Right,” said E. Z., smiling.
Sondra backed her car out. As she pulled onto the road, she eyed Edsel’s shop with contempt. “The city of Orange will be much better off when you’re dead and buried, Old Man.”
Chapter 11
“Come on, Craig, you’ve got to get up!” Lenny banged on his brother’s bedroom door. “It’s 1:30.”
Craig jumped out of bed. His throbbing head made him wish he hadn’t. He opened the door just a crack. His voice sounded tired and hoarse. “Stop it. I’m up.”
Lenny tried to get a peek. “You got a woman in there?” he said, grinning.
“None of your business. And keep your voice down.”
“Where did you go last night? I thought you were right behind me. I called your cell. Why didn’t you answer?”
“I needed to think, so I went for a drive.”
“And picked up a hooker?”
“Again—it’s none of your business.”
“Well, hurry up. Daddy said he’d see us at The Barn at 2:00.”
“You go on. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Craig…“
“Go. I’ll be there.”
After Craig shut the door, Lenny put his ear up to it, and listened for a woman’s voice.
Craig hit the door with his fist.
Lenny’s head bounced off the door. “Ouch!”
“Go!”
Craig knew he needed to hurry. He didn’t want to make Billy-Eye mad. But he had to take just a few more seconds to admire Cindy’s sexy naked body, while she lay sleeping in his bed. He wanted to, but he couldn’t—because she was not there. He had been with her in his dreams all night long. No wonder he’d slept so late.
**********
Edsel kept his old cassette player turned down low, so he could hear when someone came into his shop. Most people didn’t bother to call him on the phone. They knew he wouldn’t answer it unless he happened to be on a break. If you wanted Edsel to work on your car, it was best to just bring it in.
His shop had an in-floor hydraulic lift, which had broken down over a year ago. Angie had been pleading with him to buy a new one, to no avail. To him, it would be a waste of money. He had a perfectly good portable hy-draulic lift, and 36-inch creeper. A creeper is a flat board on wheels, with padding and a small built-in pillow.
He didn’t mind rolling under cars to work on them. He explained to Angie that he enjoyed being able to do some of his work lying down. His feet got sore when he had to stand on the hard concrete all day. A couple of times she had found him asleep under a car. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t get-ting paid by the hour.
Edsel was working under a 1972 Impala, replacing the starter, when he heard somebody come into the shop. “Hello? Who’s there?”
“Uncle Ed?”
“Greg?” He rolled out from under the car, jumped up and wiped his hands on a rag. He grabbed Greg’s hand, and shook it hard.
Greg had forgotten about Uncle Ed’s vise-like grip.
“And this must be Cynthia.”
“Hi.” Cynthia smiled and shook his hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Well, I wouldn’t believe everything Knuckle-Banger tells you.”
“Knuckle-Banger?” She snickered. “You didn’t tell me you had a nickname, Honey.”
Another thing Greg had forgotten. “Yeah. When Uncle Ed and I were working on my old Thunderbird I’d be pulling on a wrench with all my might, and it would slip off, and I’d bust my knuckles.”
“He did it a lot,” added Ed. “Probably lost a half-pint of blood in this shop.”
“But only Uncle Ed is allowed to call me that. You don’t need to tell any-body else about it.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Cynthia. “I think your choir members might get a kick out of it.”
Greg grimaced. But he knew she was joking. At least he hoped so. “Every-thing going okay, Uncle Ed?”
“Yep. I’ve got more work than I can handle. One of these days I’m gonna have to turn somebody away—send them to some other mechanic,” said Edsel.
“Well, that’s great.” Greg paused. “Have you had that talk with Angie yet?”
Cynthia was surprised to see Edsel’s face turn red.
“No. But I will.”
“Well, if you need my help—“
“—no, that’s okay. I’m gonna do it.”
“You’ve got until we go home tomorrow night,” said Greg. “Or I’m going to tell her myself.”
“I’m gonna do it.”
“Good. How about tomorrow night, the four of us have dinner together? Are the Haystack Fiddlers still playing at Angie’s on Sunday nights?”
“Sure are.”
“Great. You’ll like them,” said Greg to Cynthia. “They’re a local Country and Bluegrass band.”
“Sounds like fun,” she said.
“Well, I’d better get back to work,” said Edsel. “I promised Mrs. Jennings her car would be ready to go by 4:00.”
“Okay,” said Greg. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Bye,” said Cynthia. “It was nice to meet you.”
“Me too,” said Edsel, as he lay down on the creeper, and rolled under the Impala. “And don’t forget, Greg.”
“What?” Greg was holding the door open for Cynthia.
“Fly the rain!” said Edsel.
“Fly the rain!” said Greg.
As they were walking to the car, Cynthia said, “What does that mean?”
“To be honest, I’m not quite sure.”
“Then why did you say it?”
“It’s just something Uncle Ed likes to say. I think it means ‘Have a great day,’ or ‘Go for it,’ or something like that.”
“You never asked him?”
“Well, at first I thought it was something I was supposed to already know. Like when the doctor says, ‘You know why you got that rash, right?’ You’d rather just pretend like you knew. Anyway, after a while I was too embar-rassed to admit that I didn’t know what it meant. And I never heard him say it to anyone else, so I couldn’t ask them either.”
“He only said it to you?”
“Yeah. And for a while I was afraid it meant something…sexual.”
“No wonder you were afraid to ask.”
“Yeah. But then I realized I was just being silly. He’s not like that.”
“Tell you what—tomorrow night I’ll ask him.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ve gone this many years without knowing. It’s no big deal.”
**********
“Norma! Somebody’s knocking on the front door. Can’t you hear?” Ralph Tenorly was sitting in his favorite chair, a few feet from the door, watching a baseball game on TV.
“I’m coming,” said Norma, in a singsong voice. She walked in from the kitchen, through living room, and opened the front door. “Greg! Come on in. And you must be Cynthia. Oh, she’s beautiful, Greg. You’re a lucky man. A very lucky man.”
Ralph didn’t get up. He barely looked away from the game as they walked in. “Hello.”
“Sweetie, this is my dad’s new wife, Norma. And this is my dad, Ralph.”
“Hi, Norma.”
Ralph forced himself to stand up and shake Cynthia’s hand. “How are you?”
“Fine, Sir. I’m glad to finally meet you,” said Cynthia.
“Norma’s right. You’re quite a looker.”
“Thanks,” said Cynthia. She’d heard it her entire life, although rarely in those exact words. But she never let it go to her head. She was no more re-sponsible for her natural beauty than a tall person is for their height. But a nice compliment was always appreciated. Maybe Greg had exaggerated. Ralph didn’t seem so bad.
“So, how did you get mixed up with this do-gooder?”
“Actually,” she looked at Greg, “this do-gooder saved my life.”
“Really? Y’all sit down and tell us all about it,” said Norma.
“How’s your Uncle Edsel?” said Ralph.
Greg and Cynthia looked at each other. Greg said, “How did you—“
“—how did I know you went by to see him? Your wife’s got grease on her hand.”
“Where?” Cynthia looked for it.
“On the edge of your little finger,” said Ralph.
“Let me get you a paper towel,” said Norma, rushing into the kitchen.
“So, how is the old nutcase?” Greg’s dad liked referring to Edsel as ‘old,’
even though Ed was twenty-five years younger than him. Ralph had never shown his brother-in-law any respect. At the time Ralph married Barbara Torkman, her kid brother was in the first grade. Ralph was even more cruel than Edsel’s mean classmates—endlessly picking on the stuttering child.
“He’s doing fine,” said Greg. “But he’s not a nutcase.”
“Sure he is,” said Ralph.
“Well, it seems like he’s doing pretty well. He’s got plenty of business from what I understand. He must be doing something right.”
“Yeah. You know why he’s got all that business? He’s still charging 1980’s prices. That’s why people take their cars to him—he’s cheap. Don’t ask me how he’s paying the bills.”
Norma handed Cynthia a paper towel, and Cynthia wiped the grease off her hand.
“I tried to help him, you know,” said Ralph. “He could have come to work with me at the shipyard. He would have made a good living there. At least you gave it a try.”
Cynthia looked at Greg.
“He couldn’t hack it though,” said Ralph. “Greg was just too soft to do ma-nual labor.”
“I was eighteen years old,” said Greg. “And that woman they had me work-ing with had the trashiest mouth I’ve ever heard. I just couldn’t take that.”
Ralph chuckled. “Yeah, Connie was a little rough around the edges alright. But she was a woman. All you would have had to do was cuss her out a couple of times. Then she would showed you some respect.”
“I don’t do that,” said Greg.
“Of course you don’t,” said Ralph. “You wouldn’t cuss if your life depended on it. Because that would be wrong, wouldn’t it? And you never do any-thing wrong. You’re perfect.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your holier-than-thou face.”
Norma jumped in. “Okay, boys, that’s enough.”
“We need to go,” said Greg, rising to his feet.
Cynthia stood up.
“We’ll see you tomorrow at the party,” said Greg, as he hurried out the door with Cynthia.
Greg dreaded having to attend his dad’s stupid birthday party tomorrow.
But for now, he would put his dad out of his mind. He and Cynthia were headed for their hotel room. And tonight, there would be no midnight in-terruptions from his mother-in-law.
Chapter 12
“Join me for dinner?”
“Sure.” Angie spun around, expecting to see Edsel in his overalls. But to-night, he was wearing slacks and a polo shirt—which, for Edsel, was formal attire.
“What’s the matter? You’re looking at me funny.”
“Well, you’re just so…dressed up. What’s the occasion?”
“It’s Saturday night, and I’m having dinner with Miss Angie.”
She hadn’t been a ‘miss’ since she was in her twenties, but she thought it was sweet when Edsel called her that. “Okay.” But she knew there must be more to it. Edsel had never dressed up like this to come over for dinner. He usually just washed up a little, and stayed in his work clothes.
“This time you won’t have to wipe down the chair after I leave.”
“I don’t do that.”
“Yes, you do. I saw you the other night. And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t come in here when I’m all greasy.”
“It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
“Well, are you hungry?”
“I’m starving. And my feet are killing me.”
“Good time for a break then.”
She turned to one of her waitresses. “Shelly? We’re gonna take Table Twelve.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“And we’ll have iced tea.”
“I’ll bring it right over.”
Good, thought Edsel. Table Twelve was in the back corner.
He and Angie walked to their table, and sat down.
After a few moments of listening to the band Edsel said, “The Fiddlers sure sound good tonight.”
“Yep,” said Angie. “They always do.”
Shelly delivered their iced teas, and took their order.
Angie’s cell phone rang. When she saw who was calling, she said, “Not again.”
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s Clifford. He’s started up again.”
“He just can’t let you go, can he?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll be right back.” She got up and walked to her office.
Edsel sat at the table, wondering if Angie would ever get back together with her ex, Clifford Silverstern. His family had money—tons of the stuff. They owned a bank, a jewelry store, a funeral home, a hotel, and a fancy Italian restaurant.
Edsel couldn’t believe it when Angie started dating him years ago. He knew she wouldn’t marry him for money. She must have truly been in love with the putz. The day of the wedding was the lowest point in Edsel’s life. For a moment, he had toyed with the idea of jumping off the Rainbow Bridge.
After a year or so, Angie began to see Clifford for who he really was. But she was too stubborn to give up on the marriage. She toughed it out for another fifteen years. Near the end, even her father, Herman, was begging her to get out. He had come to hate Clifford for making his daughter mi-serable.
Unfortunately, Herman Maberly hated Edsel just as much as he hated Clif-ford. If the old man were to walk in and see her eating dinner with Edsel, he’d probably go home and get his shotgun.
Angie walked back to the table shaking her head. “I’m sorry.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Clifford just doesn’t get it. There are plenty of women around town who’d jump at the chance to be with him. But the more I tell him I don’t want him, the more determined he is to get me back.”
Shelly brought their food.
“Wow, that was fast,” said Edsel. “Smells good.”
They listened to the band and watched couples Two-Step around the floor while they ate. Edsel decided to save the important talk until after dinner.
“How about some cherry pie for dessert? We baked them this afternoon,” she said.
He smiled. “You know I can’t resist your cherry pie, Angie.”
“Okay. I’ll go get us some.”
In less than five minutes, she hurried back with the two plates. “I hope I didn’t give you too much ice cream,” said Angie.
“Not at all.” Edsel grinned with delight. There was no dessert on earth bet-ter than Angie’s cherry pie, topped with Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla ice cream.
“Oops, I forgot. I’m supposed to be helping you eat healthier. Let me just take that back in the kitchen and I’ll—”
“—don’t you dare,” he said, guarding his plate with both hands.
She smiled. “Just kidding. It’s okay to splurge every once in a while.”
Edsel’s mouth was already full of pie and ice cream. He mumbled in agreement.
“It’s nice when we sit down together for a meal like this. We should do it more often.”
“Well, you’re always so busy running this place,” he said. “You ought to hire somebody to help you manage it.”
“Me? What about you? If you’d hire another mechanic, you wouldn’t have to work seven days a week.”
“Folks don’t trust anybody else to work on their cars. That’s why they bring them to me. They don’t want some green kid tricking around under the hood.”
“I know.”
They finished their desserts.
“Angie?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”
“What is it?”
“Well, you know that we’ve been friends for a long time.”
“Forever.”
“Yeah. And you know I like spending time with you.”
“Sure. Me too.”
“Well…”
There was only one couple on the dance floor, doing the Texas Two-Step. It’s a dance that involves quick, precise movements with your partner, and spinning counterclockwise around the floor. Sometimes the woman hangs onto the man with her right hand by putting a couple of fingers through one of his belt loops. Usually, he’s wearing blue jeans, so the belt loops are strong.
But perhaps this particular belt loop had already seen too much action. It ripped loose, causing the woman to lose her balance. Her partner tripped. Then they tripped on each other, unable to catch themselves. Finally, they fell on top of a table. The top broke off its base, and tipped downward, sending plates of food airborne. People at the nearby tables gasped.
Angie jumped up, and ran over to help. “Is everybody okay?”
The man helped his dance partner get up. “Be careful, Honey, there’s gravy all over the floor.”
The two women that had been sitting at the table were now standing, looking at the dinner they had just begun to eat, strewn across the dance floor.
“I’m so sorry. We’ll cook you up a fresh dinner right away. I’m buying to-night. And I’ll even throw in a dessert.”
“Thanks, Angie. But you don’t have to do that. We’ll pay for our own din-ner.”
“No, no. I insist.”
By the time she had things under control, and went back to her table, Edsel was gone.
“Shelly, I’m gonna walk over to Edsel’s. I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”
The shop door was locked. Edsel never locked up the shop while he was inside. So, she walked around back to his house. She knocked a few times, but he didn’t answer. Maybe he went for a walk, she thought.
She headed back to the restaurant, curious about what Edsel wanted to tell her. They would have time to talk tomorrow, on the way to Ralph’s birth-day party.
**********
“Hey, Blondie Boobs, come give me a lick.” The eighteen year-old winked at Sondra, and laughed with his buddies. He was the tallest in the group.
Sondra was leading her band toward the stage to get ready for their per-formance. She told them to go on without her. She would join them in a few minutes.
She strutted up to the boy, and gave him a sexy smile. “So, you want a piece of me?”
“Well, sure,” he said, struggling to sustain his cockiness. “You’re hot.”
His buddies were clearly impressed with their fearless leader.
“Come with me,” she said, as she took his hand. Then she turned back, and leaned in close to his friends, to speak confidentially. They gathered around her. “Don’t worry boys—I’ll try not to make him too sore.” She led
him away.
“Go, Ryan,” said one of his buddies.
Sondra peeked into the girl’s bathroom, and saw that it was unoccupied. She yanked him inside, and took him to a stall, pushed him in forcefully, and got in with him. Then she closed and locked the door. She could see the excitement in his eyes. And the fear.
“Let’s see what you’ve got to offer.” She ripped his shirt open, and a couple of buttons popped off. “Oh, very nice.” She massaged his chest with both hands. “How does that feel?”
“Good. Real good.”
She worked her right hand down to his crotch.
Ryan moaned. He was no longer worried about whether somebody might catch them. He wasn’t worried about anything.
She rubbed him gently between the legs, and then held him in the palm of her hand—like a couple of big grapes. “How’s this?”
He tried to speak, but nothing decipherable came out.
“And how about this?” She clamped down hard.
He tried to push her away, but she squeezed even tighter. “Please, stop!”
“Have you learned your lesson?” If he gave the wrong answer, she would use both hands to crush him with all her might, until his hanging fruit burst wide open.
Tears ran down both cheeks. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Tell me what you’ve learned.”
“Could you let go first?”
She loosed her grip—slightly. “Tell me what you’ve learned.”
“Not to mess with you.”
“Good. And what else?”
“Not to mess with any woman?”
“Right. No matter…”
Ryan had no idea what she wanted him to say.
She tried again. “No matter…”
“No matter how hot she is?”
“Good. And no matter how…”
“Ugly?”
She clamped down hard, and he thought he was about to pass out. He prayed he would pass out.
“What?” he said. “What do you want me to say?”
“Never mind.” She released her grip, and pushed him down on the toilet seat.
As soon as she was gone, he stood up, and pulled down his pants to check the damage. To his amazement, everything was still intact, and he was not bleeding.
Sondra had left the stall door ajar. And Ryan was still in the process of ex-amining himself when a girl pushed the door open, and started to walk into the stall. But when she saw him there, bent over, touching himself, she screamed and ran out of the bathroom.
That’s okay, he thought. Wait until he told the guys about what he had done with the hot lead singer in the girl’s bathroom. He’d be a legend—as long as his story didn’t get back to Sondra. Oh, he’d still be a legend. He’d just be dead…or castrated.
If given a choice, he’d opt for dead.
Chapter 13
When Angie had walked over to Edsel’s house after the dance accident and discovered he was not at home, she had assumed he’d gone for a walk. It was not unusual to see him walking the streets after dark. She had encour-aged him to get a dog so that people would be less likely to think he was up to no good. But most of the neighbors knew him, and were not the least concerned.
However, this was not a night for walking. Edsel had some serious thinking to do, and that called for a long drive. He’d checked the headlights and taillights before backing out of his attached two-car garage. It had been quite a while since he’d taken his convertible out at night. It was an orange and white 1958 Edsel Citation two-door.
He drove out of Orange via Highway 87, passing through Bridge City on his way to Port Arthur. It reminded of the many nights he’d made this trip two decades earlier. Back then, he would take 87 all the way down to Bolivar Peninsula, across the ferry to Galveston. On some parts of ‘Beach Road’ you could actually steer your car right onto the beach, and drive straight into the water—if you were crazy enough. Edsel would never have done that. He had been extremely depressed during that time, as Angie was about to marry Clifford Silverstern. But not enough to drown himself or his beauti-ful car.
Back in the 1980’s, once Edsel had made it to Galveston he would take I-45 to Interstate 10, and then head back to Orange. The entire trip took about six hours. He wished he could follow that same route tonight. But Beach Road was now gone—or, at least a big portion of it. That road had been there since the Civil War. It had been damaged and repaired many times. But when Hurricane Jerry came through in 1989, it was the last straw. Beach Road has been closed ever since.
So, there would be no long drive along the beach listening to the waves. No relaxing ride on the Bolivar Ferry. The ferry is still there, but he would have had to take the detour to get to there. It just wasn’t the same.
Instead, he planned to simply drive the triangle. The cities of Port Arthur, Beaumont, and Orange outline the area known as The Golden Triangle. He wasn’t sure how many revolutions it would take.
Edsel knew Greg was right. He needed to go ahead and tell Angie how he really felt about her. When Angie’s divorce had become final, he knew it
was too soon to say anything. He needed to give her some time. Then, after about six months, when Angie seemed completely over the marriage and the divorce, Edsel considered bringing it up—until Clifford started calling and coming by nearly every day, trying to get her back. So, Edsel had con-tinued to wait.
He tried not to dwell on the fact that they could have had all those years together. Going to bed with her every night. Not just for the sex. When you love someone as deeply as he loved Angie, the physical part could be fan-tastic. Mind-blowing. But as much as he wanted to make love to her, he also wanted to just sleep in the same bed with her. Wake up every morning with her.
Edsel loved working on cars, but he would have been lost without his daily dose of Angie. Even during the years she was married to Clifford, Edsel still got to see her a few minutes every day.
But that wasn’t enough anymore. It didn’t have to be enough—if he would just tell her he loved her. And that he wanted to marry her. He felt a chill run up his spine. He had not said it in years—even to himself. But it was true. Edsel Torkman wanted to marry Angie Silverstern with all his heart.
Tomorrow would be the day. He would tell her before they went to Ralph’s birthday party.
**********
“Look at them,” said Billy-Eye. “They’re all pushing and shoving, trying to get right up close to the stage.”
“Somebody might get hurt,” said Craig. “Maybe we’d better break it up.”
“I don’t think we could, even if we wanted to. And believe me—we don’t want to. This is why they came.”
It was 10:55 PM, and Orange Puke was nearly at the end of their second set. The Buttard boys had calculated that scheduling the first set at 7:00 would get the kids there early, and the second set at 10:00 would keep them hanging around. Nobody wanted to miss the final song of the night—Orange Puke’s signature song: “Puking My Guts Out (All Over You).”
A few of the kids were wearing caps. One girl was in a raincoat. But most
appeared ready and willing to bear the full brunt of the inevitable vomit shower. It might as well have been real vomit as far as many mothers were concerned. Those orange stains would never come out in the wash.
“I know how they do it,” yelled a 14-year-old boy into his friend’s ear.
“How?”
“Remember last night when they tilted their heads back?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s when they did it. That’s when they poured the stuff in their mouths.”
“No. We would have seen that.”
“I’m telling you. Watch them. They must have a bottle hidden under their coats.”
“I don’t think so.”
The song was almost over. The three guitarists stepped to the edge of the stage, as they swung their guitars to their backs.
“Okay. Watch,” shouted the boy. “Here they go.”
The three women tilted their heads back. Then they hurled on top of the crowd. Girls screamed. Boys yelled. Everyone scattered.
“Yuk,” said one of the girls.
“Isn’t it cool?” Her friend wiped the orange goo off her own face.
“This place is a mess,” said Billy-Eye. “Worse than last night. We’ve got coke and popcorn and candy wrappers all over the floor. And now we’ve got puke.” He looked around. “And I think that over there is real puke.”
“But it’s worth it. Right?” Craig smiled proudly.
“I hope so,” said Billy-Eye.
“Definitely,” said Lenny as he walked up. We’re nearly out of candy. And we had a ton of it. We’ll have to make a run to Sam’s tomorrow, so we’ll
have some for tomorrow night.”
“How about the video games?” said Billy-Eye.
“I don’t how much we’ve taken in, but the kids have been playing them non-stop. So, I think we’re good,” said Lenny.
“I just hope this vomit gimmick doesn’t wear off too soon,” said Billy-Eye. “When the kids get tired the band throwing up on them we’ll find out if they actually like their music.”
**********
Greg was sitting on their hotel room bed in his underwear when Cynthia emerged from the bathroom. He assumed she would slither out into the dimly lit room wearing her most skimpy lingerie. So, he was surprised to see her in one of his Oxford dress shirts.
“Let’s play a little game,” she said.
“Okay.” The way she looked, he would have done anything she asked. Even if it was something crazy, like: walk down to the truck stop and get me the shoe of a truck driver. Hopefully it wouldn’t be that. But Greg could already picture the big guy chasing him down the hotel hallway wearing only one shoe.
“You can be the student, and I’ll be the teacher.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” It sounded much easier than going after that shoe.
“Greg, you’ve been a very bad boy.” She pulled a chair away from the table and slid it to a corner of the room. “So, you must be punished.”
“I understand, Miss Cynthia.”
“You’re going to have to sit here in the corner for a while.”
“For how long, Miss Cynthia?”
“I’ll let you know when your time is up. Now come over here.”
Greg walked to the chair and sat down. “I really like your shirt, Miss Cyn-thia.”
“Thanks. Would you like to see it up close?”
“Yes, Ma’ma. Very much.”
Cynthia sat down on Greg’s lap, facing him. “It’s a nice fabric isn’t it?”
“I think so. It’s a little hard to see in here.”
“Yes. It is kinda dark. Tell me if you can see this.” She unbuttoned the shirt and opened it.
“Oh, Miss Cynthia. I really like this fabric.” Greg kissed her on the neck and began to work his way downward.
Then they heard another woman’s voice. It almost sounded like she was in the room with them. They suddenly realized they were close to the door that opened into the adjoining room.
It was a young woman voice, speaking in perfect monotone. “Oh, Baby, you’re so good. Keep going. Yeah, Baby. That’s right.”
“Would you buy that?” whispered Cynthia.
“She needs acting lessons,” said Greg.
They both wanted to laugh out loud, but they knew they’d be heard, so they fought it. Then the man groaned loudly, followed by dead silence.
“I guess he bought it,” said Cynthia.
They started snickering and nearly fell off the chair.
“Let’s get away from this door,” whispered Greg.
They ran to the bed and jumped in. It would be their best night of love-making since the honeymoon.
And it wouldn’t be until the next morning that they would wonder if any-one had heard them.
Chapter 14
Any time Herman Mayberly walked into the restaurant, the wait staff scat-tered. At 76, Herman was like an older John Wayne—but without the charm. Occasionally patrons would hear him in the kitchen clanging pots and pans, yelling at the top of his voice over something that wasn’t cooked according to his standards. He was a bull to work for.
It was wonder he’d ever been able to hold onto staff people. Mostly they stayed around because of Angie. She always had a knack for making people feel good about themselves—in spite of their lousy situation.
Angie liked to think that her father had once been a kind, caring man. But that was before she was born. She attributed his perpetual grouchiness to the loss of his 38-year-old wife while giving birth to their only child. He often said he could see Wanda every time he looked at Angie. And instead of bringing a smile to his face, it seemed to make him angry.
“Where’s Angie?” he barked at a young waitresses.
“I think she’s in her office.”
Her office. Until a year ago, it had always been his office. He had begged Angie to divorce Clifford, promising her full control of the restaurant if she did. It was time for him to retire anyway. And when his daughter finally filed for divorce, Herman begrudgingly kept his promise. At least he tried to—unless he saw something that wasn’t being done right.
“A couple of your waitresses look like teenagers.”
Angie looked up from her computer. “They are teenagers, Dad.”
“Well, that’s too young. You need mature women who know how to treat your customers—not some wise-cracking kids. In all my days of running this place I never hired any teenagers.”
“Yes, you did.”
“What? I did not. Never.”
“You hired one. Me. I started working here when I was twelve.”
“I didn’t hire you. You worked for free.”
“You upped my allowance.”
“Okay, yeah. But that’s different.”
“So, where you have been? I haven’t seen or heard from you in a few days.”
“I told you where I was going. Don’t you ever listen? Me and Bob spent a couple of days up at Sam Rayburn.”
“Oh. Well, yeah, you told me he invited you. But I didn’t think you would go.”
“Well, I figured you don’t need me here anymore, so I might as well try to find something to keep me busy.”
“Yeah, but fishing? I thought you hated fishing.”
“I thought so too. But with Bob it’s kinda fun.”
“Great, Dad. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“So, what’s going on around here? Anything new?”
“No. Not really. We had a little accident on the dance floor last night, but nobody got hurt.”
“Well, why are you dressed up like that?”
“Uh…I’m going to a party.”
“On Sunday afternoon? What is it—a birthday party?”
“Yeah.”
“Anybody I know?”
“Ralph Tenorly. He’s 75.”
“Ralph Tenorly? That old codger?”
“Old codger? Dad, you’re a year older than him.”
“You don’t even know him, do you?”
“Not really.”
“Then why are you…” Suddenly it hit him. “Does this have anything to do with that grease monkey across the street?”
“Dad…”
“You’re going to the party with him, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Now just settle down.”
“I will not settle down! You know how much I hate that good-for-nothing bum!”
“Come on, Dad—you don’t really hate Edsel.”
“Yes, I do—and you know why!”
“Daddy, that was years ago. Can’t you just finally forgive him?”
“No. I can’t and I won’t!” He stormed out of her office.
Angie checked the wall clock: 1:47 PM. She would finish up the payroll checks, and then walk over to see about Edsel. He was probably still work-ing. If she didn’t make him to stop, take a shower and get dressed, they would be late for the party.
**********
Edsel was lying on the creeper under Mr. Jennings’ 1977 Coupe DeVille. He wasn’t sure how many times he’d made the loop around the Golden Trian-gle last night. He should have been sleepy. But there was no way he could accidentally doze off. Not today. His mind raced with thoughts of how he would tell Angie that he still loved her—that he had never stopped loving her.
He imagined how she might react. There were several possibilities. But on-ly one of them would be the correct reaction. If there was any hesitation on her part…or even the slightest hint of pity in her eyes, it was over. His dreams of happiness would never come true. But why dwell on the nega-tive? He must tell her with confidence. If his whole world was destined to fall apart, so be it.
He heard somebody open the shop door and walk in. Had to be Angie. Probably checking to make sure he was getting ready for the party. “I know what you’re gonna say. I should have already been in the shower by now.
But don’t worry. I’m about to quit.” He quickly finished tightening the last bolt on the oil pan. “Angie?”
She didn’t answer.
**********
“Looks like business is starting to slow down,” said Cindy Banya, sitting in a booth at The Biscuit with Craig Buttard.
“Yeah, most of the church people come in between 11:30 and 1:00. By mid-afternoon it’s pretty much dead.”
“What’s going on in the back room?” Cindy watched as a waitress walked by carrying a large electric coffee urn.
“Somebody must be having a meeting or a party.”
“I see.”
A waitress brought their coffee and dessert. “Two coffees and two straw-berry biscuit cakes.”
“Surprised?” said Craig.
“Strawberry biscuit cakes?” Cindy studied the dessert. It was one Buttard Biscuit, covered with fresh strawberries and whipped cream with a cherry on top. “I should have known it would have a biscuit in it.”
“Taste it.”
She frowned at him, and then picked up her spoon and sampled the des-sert. “Not bad, actually.”
“See. I knew you’d like it.”
She took another bite. “Yeah, I hate to admit it—but you were right. It’s delicious.”
“Good. And now that you know you can trust my judgment, I’ve got some-thing else for you to try. And it’s also delicious.”
She gave him a dirty look. “Funny. Is that all you think about?”
“Well…yeah, when I’m around you. You get to me. You’re just so doggone sexy.”
Cindy almost fell for it, but then caught herself. “Wonder how many times you’ve used that line. How many times, Craig?”
He grinned slyly. “Oh, I don’t know…maybe a few hundred.”
She lowered her voice. “You are such a tramp.”
“Well, I’ve been called a lot of things, but—a tramp? Maybe in Russia that makes sense, but in the U. S. that word is only used for women—not men.”
“It has nothing to do with Russia or America. You’d be a tramp in any country.”
Craig lost his grin. “Hey.”
“So, you don’t consider yourself a tramp?”
“No, of course not.”
“Even though you’ve slept with dozens of women?”
“Well…”
“But you want to turn me into a tramp. Right?”
“No, no. You’ve got it all wrong.”
“Really? Explain.”
Craig liked Cindy more than any woman he’d met in a long time, but he knew he was on the verge of killing his chances with her. He reached across the table and held her hand. “Look, Cindy. I’m sorry. Sometimes I try too hard to impress people. I’m not really like this. It’s just an act.”
Cindy looked into his eyes. She wanted to believe him.
**********
“Do you really think Norma needs our help? I hate to get there early when only she and my dad are there.” Greg pulled into the parking lot of The Buttard Biscuit Restaurant.
“Why?” said Cynthia. “Because you’re afraid you’ll have to talk to your dad? You need to talk to him. There’s got to be a way for the two of you to get past this bitterness. And it’s sure not going to get any better unless you try.”
They walked into the restaurant and headed for the meeting room, passing Cindy and Craig’s booth along the way. Greg recognized Billy-Eye’s older son. He wondered if the attractive woman in the booth with him knew about his reputation.
“Hello. Happy Birthday, Mr. Tenorly,” said Cynthia as she rushed over to Ralph and gave him an unexpected hug.
“Thanks.”
Norma went to Greg and hugged him. “I’m glad y’all came early.”
“We’re here to help,” said Cynthia. “What can we do?”
A waitress walked into the room. “Are one of you Greg Tenorly?”
“Yes. I’m Greg.”
“There’s a call for you.”
He followed her to the cashier’s counter. She handed him the phone.
“Hello? This is Greg Tenorly.”
“Greg…”
Her voice was so shaky that he didn’t recognize it at first.
“…there’s been a terrible accident.”
Then he realized it was Angie Silverstern.
“Edsel is in the emergency room.”
Chapter 15
Greg and Cynthia rushed into the Emergency Room waiting area.
Angie peeked through the Emergency Room doors and spotted them. “Greg?” She stepped through the door and walked toward them.
“Hey, Angie,” said Greg. “How’s Edsel doing?”
“It’s not as bad it first looked. I thought he’d gone into a coma.”
“What happened?”
“He was working under a car and the jack gave way. The paramedics fig-ured the oil pan must have hit him right in the chest when the car fell.”
“So, what’s his condition?”
“He’s got several fractured ribs.”
“Ouch. Those are painful.”
“Yeah. The doctor says he probably passed out from the pain. And he couldn’t move. He was pinned under the car.”
“Did he ever wake up?” said Cynthia.
“Yes, he did. But he was in such pain that they immediately gave him a shot of Morphine. They’re going to set up the automatic intravenous injections for him.”
“What do they do for fractures ribs?” said Greg. “Surgery?”
“No,” said Angie. “They just let them heal on their own. But it can take up to two months. And in the meantime all they do is treat the pain. The doc-tor doesn’t think there are any internal injuries, but he wants to keep Edsel in the hospital for a couple of days so they can watch him—just in case.”
“Did you get to talk to him?” said Greg.
“No. But he did see me, I think.”
“How does the doctor know his ribs are fractured?” said Cynthia.
“He pushed down on Edsel’s chest in several spots. Even I could tell when he found one. I’ve never heard Edsel scream like that before. It gave me the creeps.”
“Any chance we could see him?” said Greg.
“I’m sure you can—once they get him moved to a room.”
“I’m sorry—I’m being rude,” said Greg. “Angie, this is my wife, Cynthia.”
The two exchanged greetings.
“Why don’t we go and grab a cup of coffee while we’re waiting,” said Greg.
On their way to the cafeteria, Greg called Norma to give her a status report on Edsel. Ralph had not wanted to cancel his party since Norma had al-ready paid for the meeting room, and would not be eligible for a refund.
**********
E. Z. Bender took the elevator to the fourth floor, and walked up to the nurses’ station. “Could you please give me the room number for Edsel Torkman? They told me he was being moved to this floor.”
The nurse checked her computer. “They haven’t brought him up yet, but he’ll be going into Room 419.”
“Okay. Thank you.” She walked down the hallway, searching for his room. Then she saw two orderlies pushing a bed through a doorway. When she got closer she saw the 419 numbering on the wall, next to the door. She watched as they transferred him into the room bed. He appeared to be out cold.
The orderlies finished, and walked out of the room. E. Z. walked in and stood beside his bed. She studied the bag hanging at the head of his bed, wondering what the clear fluid was. Probably just saline, she thought.
There was also an electronic box on a stand with a tube coming out of it that led to Edsel’s IV. The box made a noise, and she guessed it was pump-ing pain medicine into his body. But what if he got too much of the stuff? Was there any way to override the device and force an overdose?
A nurse walked into the room. “How’s he doing?”
“Okay, I guess. I don’t know.”
The nurse began to check out her new patient. “So, is this your dad?”
There was no response.
The nurse turned around. E. Z. was gone.
Greg held the elevator door open while Angie and Cynthia walked out onto the fourth floor. Then he continued to hold it until the young woman walked in.
When they reached Room 419, the nurse was coming out. “You just missed your daughter.”
“What?” said Angie, confused.
“She just left. I’m surprised you didn’t pass her in the hallway.”
“What made you think she was my daughter?”
“Are you kidding?” The nurse smiled. “She looks just like you.”
Angie was stunned.
“Except for her long black hair,” said the nurse, walking away.
Angie seemed to be in another world.
Cynthia turned to Greg and whispered, “I didn’t know she had any kids.”
“She doesn’t.”
Finally Angie spoke. “I’m just trying to think who it could have been. I don’t have any friends or employees with long black hair.”
“Why don’t we go in and sit down,” said Cynthia. She led them to the couch and chair.
“I hate to ask the question,” said Greg, “but, is it possible that what hap-pened to Uncle Ed was not an accident?”
“What do you mean?” said Angie.
“The jack that was holding up the car—it was one of those quick-release jacks, right?”
“You don’t honestly think somebody deliberately tried to hurt Edsel, do you?” said Angie.
“Maybe,” said Greg.
“Does he have any enemies?” said Cynthia.
“No. Everybody loves Edsel. Well, I guess that’s not true. But I can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt him.” Just as the last word left her lips, she remembered the argument with her father earlier in the day, and how he had stormed out of the restaurant after discovering Angie was going to the birthday party with Edsel. That had happened only a short time before she found Edsel. Her dad hated him—there was no question about that. But surely he wouldn’t try to kill him.
Then she remembered the confrontation between Edsel and the two band members. One of them had long black hair! “I think I know who the wom-an was.”
“The one the nurse was talking about?” said Cynthia.
“Yes. She and another woman came to the restaurant Saturday trying to force me to hire their group. They’re in that all-girl band that plays at Bil-ly-Eye’s new place out on Highway 87. But why would she come here to Edsel’s room?”
“To finish off the job?” said Greg.
Angie panicked. She jumped up to check on Edsel. “Do you think she did anything to him?”
“No,” said Cynthia, glaring at her husband. “The nurse was here. She wouldn’t have had a chance to do anything. Besides, he looks fine.”
“Do you know if that band is playing tonight?” said Greg.
“I think so. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights I believe.”
Cynthia knew what Greg was thinking. She would be there with him to make sure he didn’t get himself into trouble. She turned to Greg. “Well, since he’s doing okay, maybe we should try to catch the end of your dad’s
birthday party.”
“But I don’t want to go off and leave Angie here alone.”
“It’s okay. I’m fine. Y’all go on.”
“Well, okay,” said Greg. He walked over to Edsel’s bed. “Fly the rain, Uncle Ed.”
“Do you know what it means?” said Angie.
“No. Do you?”
She picked up her purse and took out her wallet. “He gave me this—years ago. It’s a poem he wrote during his senior year. They had to read them in front of the class. He told me his classmates were laughing out loud by the time he got to the end of it. But I think it’s beautiful.” She handed the small laminated card to Greg.
He and Cynthia read it silently.
I dreamed I was a speck of dust In a beautiful puffy cloud; A warm and comfy home forever, High above the ground.
But then the darkness swallowed the light; The sky began to groan. And my mother ship spit me out On a raindrop of my own.
But I was not alone in flight; I saw others on their rain. One hit a bird, died instantly; One collided with a plane.
Right then and there I made up my mind, I wouldn’t let life just happen to me. I took control, I fought the good fight. Nobody can take that away from me.
So, you can sit back and ride your raindrop To wherever it may fall. Or saddle up like me and Fly the Rain,
Have no regrets at all.
**********
“He’s gonna be okay,” said E. Z.
Sondra closed her car door and locked it. “Who?”
“Edsel. The mechanic.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I passed you on the road today, and decided to turn around and follow you.”
Sondra got in her face. “Why would you do that?”
“Just curious.”
“Well, just remember the old saying, Honey: curiosity killed the cat.”
E. Z. just stared at her.
“So, stay out of my business.” Sondra walked off, toward the entrance of Billy-Eye’s.
Chapter 16
By the time Greg and Cynthia made it back to The Biscuit, Norma was nearly finished bagging up all the presents.
“I’m sorry we missed your party,” said Greg.
“Yeah, well I figured you’d find some way to weasel out of it,” said Ralph.
“Ralph! They had to check on Edsel,” said Norma. “How’s he doing?”
“Pretty well—considering,” said Greg.
“He’s going to be in a lot of pain for a few weeks,” said Cynthia.
“So, he won’t be able to work for a while,” said Norma.
“Knowing Uncle Ed, this is probably the only way he would ever take some time off,” said Greg. “Too bad he can’t enjoy it.”
“What does he need time off for?” said Ralph. “All he cares about is tinker-ing around with those old cars. It’s his whole life.”
Greg didn’t appreciate his dad’s attitude toward Edsel. But he had a point. Edsel probably loved working on cars as much as Greg enjoyed teaching music and directing choirs.
He thought about the satisfaction of hearing a student finally play a piece with accuracy and feeling. And how he could be moved to tears by a beau-tiful choral performance. Maybe that was how Uncle Ed felt when he got an engine tuned up just right. The purr of a well-tuned engine might be the Mormon Tabernacle Choir to his ears.
“Uncle Ed’s a great guy,” said Greg.
“Yeah, yeah, I know—he’s wonderful,” said Ralph.
“Well, you’re a pretty good guy yourself.” Greg didn’t know where that came from.
Ralph looked surprised, then irritated. “Yeah, right.”
Cynthia gave Greg a look that said ‘keep going—you’re on the right track.’
“No, I mean it,” said Greg. “I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but you worked really hard to provide for our family. I know you were disappointed when I quit my job at the shipyard after only two weeks. I hated that place. But then I thought about how you worked out there every day for over thirty years. I don’t know how you did it.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” said Ralph.
“Well, anyway, I just wanted to thank you for that,” said Greg.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, Cynthia spoke up. “So, did every-body enjoy the party?”
“Oh, yes, definitely,” said Norma. “Although, I had to help Ralph blow out the candles.”
“I could have done it,” growled Ralph. “You didn’t give me much of a chance.”
“I knew it was going to take a lot of breath to do it,” she said.
“Honey, you’re always saying I’m full of hot air,” said Ralph, “and then when I had the chance to prove it, you wouldn’t let me. That’s just like you, though—always butting in.”
“Well, sure,” said Norma, “you probably could have done it yourself…but there were just so many candles.”
“Alright, Miss Smartie-pants.”
“I had to go to three different stores to get all those candles.” Norma snick-ered.
“I’m gonna get your candles,” said Ralph grabbing for her arm, and barely missing it as she jumped back.
Greg couldn’t believe it. Ralph had nearly smiled. He was glad to see that his dad was finally happy. Maybe he’d been happy for a long time. Greg might know if he had bothered to stay in touch.
**********
“Angie?”
She dropped her magazine on the floor and jumped up from the chair. “Hi, Edsel. How do you feel?”
“Like a Cadillac fell on my chest.”
She laughed.
Edsel started to laugh—then he felt a twinge in his chest. He winched and grabbed his ribcage, which only served to exacerbate the pain.
“That must really hurt,” she said.
“You ain’t trickin’.”
Trick was Edsel’s standard curse word substitute. She had not heard it in a while. “But the doctor says you’re going to be fine. He said it would take a few weeks for the pain to completely go away.”
“Thanks for saving my life.”
“You’re welcome. I’m just glad I happened to walk over to the shop when I did.”
“You must have gotten there right after. You came over to make sure I was getting dressed for the party, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m sorry I made us miss it. What about Greg? Did he and Cynthia go?”
“They tried to catch the end of it. They were up here for quite a while.”
“So, I made them miss it too. I really feel bad about that. I was hoping it would be a chance for Greg and Ralph to get some things off their chests.”
“I know. But it wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.”
Edsel had a odd look on his face.
“Edsel?”
“No, it wasn’t an accident. Somebody released the jack on purpose.”
“Oh, no.”
“Yeah. I heard them walk in, but at first I thought it was you. So, I called out, but nobody answered. I was about to roll out from under the car when it suddenly fell on top of me. The oil pan slammed right into my chest. And those ’77 Coupe De Ville’s weigh over 4,000 pounds. The pain was excru-ciating. And I could barely breathe. Then I guess I just passed out.”
“When I found you there—I thought you were dead.” A tear dripped down her face. “Then, when I saw that you were still alive, I was afraid you had gone into a coma.”
“A coma? Nah, that’s just in the movies.” Edsel hadn’t seen Angie cry in a long time. And she never cried because of him—it was always because of Clifford. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
“What? You didn’t make me sad. I’m happy.” Tears ran down both checks. “Can’t you see?” She smiled.
Maybe this was the right time to tell her how he felt about her.
“But we’ve got to figure out who did this to you,” she said.
“How are we going to do that? I didn’t see them.”
“You couldn’t even see their legs or their feet?”
“I could have. I didn’t even look, because I really thought it was you. Even when you didn’t answer I figured you were just trying to get me to come out from under the car.”
“I think I might know who did it,” she said.
“Who?”
“Remember those two women from that band—the ones who were trying to get me to hire them to play at the restaurant?”
“The ones I ran off?”
“Yes. One of them was here earlier. Greg and Cynthia and I had gone for coffee while we were waiting for you to be moved to your room. And when we got here the nurse told us a young woman with long black hair had been standing beside your bed when she walked in. Then we realized that
we had just passed that woman at the elevator.”
“Really? The tall blonde did look kinda mean. But the short black-haired woman seemed sort of innocent.” He paused. “So, you really think she’s the one who dropped the car on me? And then came here to—”
“—I don’t know. But I’m not going to be comfortable leaving you alone un-til whoever did this is caught.”
Angie took his hand in hers.
There will never be a better time, thought Edsel. “Angie? I need to tell you something.”
“Okay. Is this the same something you were about to tell me last night after dinner?”
“Yes. And I’m just gonna say it.”
Angie was not about to interrupt.
“I love you, Angie.”
“I know, Edsel. I love you too.” She reached down and gently brushed his hair back with her hand. “I’ve always loved you.”
“No. You don’t understand. Not that kind of love. Not a best-friends kind of love. Angie, I want to take you in my arms and kiss you—on the lips. I want to take off all your clothes and make love to you. I want to go to bed with you every night and wake up with you every morning. And I want to do it every day for the rest of my life.”
Angie’s tears were beginning to flow freely again.
He went on. “But if you run out of here screaming at the top of your lungs, I’ll understand. I just had to finally say it.”
She sniffled. “Oh, Edsel. I love you too—and not just as friends. I want you to take my clothes off and make love to me. I want to be in your bed every night.”
“Oh, God, Angie.” He took her hands in his.
“I listened to my dad. I did whatever he wanted me to do because I knew I
was all he had. And it was my fault that my mother died.”
“That’s not true, Angie.”
“Yes, it is. I took his wife away from him the day I was born. So, it was my job to make sure he was happy.”
“It wasn’t your fault that your mother died.”
“I know that now. But when I was a teenager it was different. I couldn’t stand to disappoint him. He was so upset with me when he found out I had been secretly dating you.”
“I know—I was such an ogre.”
“No, you weren’t. Not at all. But you were 26, and I was only 18.”
“Well, he didn’t have to break us up forever. I would have waited for you.” He looked into her beautiful, caring eyes. “What am I saying? I did wait for you.”
“Oh, Edsel.” Not today, but soon, Angie would have to tell Edsel her long-held secret. And she knew that after he’d heard the story, he might not want her in his life at all—even as a friend.
Chapter 17
Greg had talked to a waitress at The Biscuit and found out that the house band at Billy-Eye’s, Orange Puke, would be performing two one-hour sets: one at 7:00, the other at 10:00. He and Cynthia decided to go back to their hotel and relax for a while and then go out for nice dinner. Then they would go to Billy-Eye’s between sets, and have a talk with the band mem-ber who had visited Edsel’s hospital room. They had agreed to spend another night in Orange and take Monday off from their jobs.
“Gee, they need a bigger parking lot,” said Greg.
“There’s a car pulling out,” said Cynthia.
Greg drove up to the open slot, parked the car, and killed the engine.
“What are going to say to her?” said Cynthia. “You’re not gonna just come right out and ask her if she tried to kill Edsel, are you?”
“No. I’ll be more subtle than that.”
“Maybe I should talk to her.”
“Why don’t we just play it by ear,” said Greg.
Greg paid the admission charge at the door, and the young female em-ployee handed each of them a soft drink cup.
“You get free drinks all night, as long as you keep your cup.” She had re-peated that phrase hundreds of times over the past three nights.
Greg and Cynthia quickly realized that they were the only adults in the building—other than the Buttards and the band.
“There they are,” said Greg, pointing.
The band members were sitting at a long table signing autographs.
“Look at that line,” said Cynthia. “This is going to take a while.”
Greg noticed the arcade room and pointed it out to Cynthia. “Hey, how about a game of Galaga?”
“Sure. But then I want to play Ms. Pac Man.”
“It’s a deal—if they even have those old games.”
They did—and they only cost a quarter.
Every so often between games Greg would go out to check the line. At 9:40, the last kid got his coke cup signed and the band members began to get up from their chairs.
“Excuse me,” said Greg.
E. Z. turned to face him. Craig had made name tags for each of the women to wear while they were signing authographs. Greg noted the name on her tag: E. Z. Bender.
“Hi, E. Z.” said Greg. “I’m Greg Tenorly and this is my wife, Cynthia.”
E. Z. nodded.
“We passed you in the hallway at the hospital this afternoon, and we were just wondering—“
Sondra overheard the conversation and quickly stepped in. “—I’m afraid this will have to wait. We’re back on stage in less than twenty minutes and we need that much time to talk about a few things.”
“Like what?” said Boomer.
Sondra gave her a dirty look. “Like why your D string was flat all the way through the last song.”
“What? No, it wasn’t.”
“Let’s go—now!” Sondra grabbed E. Z. by the arm and pulled her away from Greg and Cynthia.
“That was interesting,” said Cynthia.
“What?”
“Sondra didn’t want E. Z. talking to us. I wonder why?”
“I’ll bet she was the other woman Angie was telling us about. The two of them had a run-in with Edsel in Angie’s office. We need to talk to both of them. But we’ll have to wait. How about another game of—“
“—Centipede. Let’s switch to Centipede.”
“Okay.”
“You know, this place is for kids—not adults.”
Greg and Cynthia turned around.
“Hi. I’m Craig Buttard.”
Greg introduced himself and Cynthia and they shook hands.
“We’re from out of town,” said Greg. “But I grew up here in Orange. And this afternoon we were over at The Biscuit and we heard about this place. The waitress told us you’ve got a talented and unusual band. And I’m a music guy. I teach private lessons and directed a church choir. So, we just thought it would be fun to drop in and see what all the fuss is about.”
Craig smiled. “Well, that’s fine. No problem. It’s just that we don’t like to have a lot of adults milling around in here. It makes the kids uncomforta-ble.”
Cynthia wondered what these kids were doing that they didn’t want their parents to see. Then she noticed a young teen couple standing in the mid-dle of the dance floor trying their best to lick each others’ tonsils.
“Where did you find this band?” said Greg.
“They’re brand new. They formed the band just this week—to get this job. One of the things we wanted was a band with a local-sounding name. Orange Puke was not exactly what we had in mind. But the kids love them. Have you heard about their… gimmick?”
“No. What gimmick?” said Greg.
Craig grinned broadly. “I’ll just let it be a surprise. Don’t miss the last song.” He walked away.
“What do you suppose they do?” said Greg. “Pull a rabbit out of a hat?”
“Look at that,” said Cynthia. The young couple was still in lip-lock.
“Better here than in the back seat of a car I guess.”
“What are you talking about? That boy’s not old enough to drive.”
He took a second look. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“I think we need to follow that girl home and tell her mother what she’s been doing up here.”
“Okay, settle down. We’ve got to stay focused. One or both of those women in the band tried to kill Edsel.”
“Maybe we should just call the police and tell them what we know. Let them handle it, Sweetie.”
“But that’s the problem. We don’t really know anything. If we can just talk to them, maybe they’ll let something slip.”
“Sondra isn’t going to let us talk to E. Z.,” said Cynthia.
“Then we’ll divide and conquer. You take Sondra and I’ll take E. Z.”
“How about if you take Sondra and I take E. Z.?”
“Okay. I don’t care. We’ll stay back here in the shadows, and maybe they’ll think we left. Then we’ll try to catch them off guard.”
Greg and Cynthia forgot all about the arcade. They refilled their coke cups and waited for Orange Puke to play.
It was nearly 11:00 PM when the band started playing “Puking My Guts Out (All Over You).”
“This must be the last song—the one with the gimmick,” said Greg.
“Why do you say that?” said Cynthia.
“Look at how the kids are crowding the stage. Everybody’s trying to get as close as possible.”
“What do think is going to happen?”
Greg shrugged.
At the end of the song, the three guitarists slung their guitars to their backs and stepped to the edge of the stage. They tilted their heads back in unison
and then jerked them back down. The girls and even some of the boys screamed. The three women barfed all over the crowd.
Greg and Cynthia were alarmed and confused.
The women spewed a steady, powerful stream of slimy orange goo. The crowd of kids quickly dispersed. Then they started laughing wildly and shouting “Orange Puke!” “Orange Puke!” “Orange Puke!”
The drummer stood. Then all four band members took a long slow bow.
The crowd whistled and cheered and the women took another bow.
Cynthia saw a girl licking her arm—as though it were an orange Popsicle. A boy tried to steal a lick, but she swatted him on the head and pushed him away.
“This is crazy,” said Greg.
“You never know what kids will go for,” said Cynthia.
“Let’s just stay back for a while. Hopefully at some point E. Z. and Sondra will separate. Then we’ll strike.”
After a few minutes, Sondra walked by, heading for the exit. She was alone.
“I’ll catch her in the parking lot,” said Greg.
“Okay. I’ll stay in here and talk to E. Z.”
Greg followed Sondra at a distance. Just before she reached her car, Boo-mer Hertz ran past him and caught Sondra unlocking the door.
The bass player must have seen Cynthia talking to E. Z., thought Greg. She’s going to tip her off.
“Hey, Sondra, would you mind giving me a ride?” said Boomer.
“How’d you get here?” said Sondra with a scowl.
“I caught a ride with Cindy. But she’s got a date with Craig tonight. Come on—Butterfly Inn is on your way home.”
“Oh, alright. Get in,” said Sondra.
As they drove out of the parking lot, Boomer said, “This is great—being back together again.”
“Yeah,” said Sondra.
“I’m so glad you asked me to be in your band,” She put her hand on top of Sondra’s thigh.
Sondra snatched Boomer’s hand off her leg. “We’re in a band together. That’s all. And I’m just giving you a ride home. We’ve been through all this before. I thought you understood.”
“Sure. I do.”
Sondra hoped she hadn’t made a big mistake. But she had been desperate for a good bass player. Without Boomer, Orange Puke would not exist.
Sondra drove up in front of Boomer’s motel room door. “Well, see you to-morrow.”
“Come in for just a minute, Sondra. I want to show you something.”
“No, I’m tired. Whatever it is, I’ll see it later.”
“Awe, come on. It’s a cool new bass I’m thinking about buying. It’ll just take a second.”
Sondra hesitated. “Okay. I’ll come in for just a second. That’s all.”
“Great.” Boomer smiled as they got out of the car. She unlocked the door and led Sondra into her room.
A few seconds later, Greg drove by and spotted Sondra’s car. He made a U-turn and went back up to the front of the parking lot and found a spot between two U-haul trucks. He backed in carefully. He would wait there until Sondra drove by. Then he would follow her.
Greg turned off the engine and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket to give Cynthia a call. It was dead. He thought about going into the motel lobby to make the call. But then he might miss Sondra.
If only he’d known what was to come, he would have left Butterfly Inn right then. He would have jammed the accelerator to the floorboard, sideswiping cars on the way out of the parking lot, burning all the rubber off his tires,
blowing out the engine—whatever it took to get him far away from Sondra Crench.
If only he’d known what was to come.
Chapter 18
Cynthia decided to wait until E. Z. had finished her conversation with Cin-dy Banya before approaching her. Craig Buttard walked up behind Cindy and put his arm around her. Almost immediately the couple said their goodbyes to E. Z. and walked away.
“Could we please talk now?”
E. Z. looked around to make sure Sondra was really gone. “I guess.”
“We were just wondering why you went to visit Edsel Torkman in the hos-pital,” said Cynthia.
“Who?”
“The nurse told us. She saw you there in his room.”
E. Z. hesitated.
“We’re thinking that what happened to Edsel was not an accident. And that you know something about it.”
“I wasn’t me.”
“Then why did you go to his hospital room?”
E. Z. looked down. “I just wanted to make sure he was okay.”
“How did you even know he was in the hospital?”
“Well, I…heard somebody talking about the accident.”
“Who?”
“Cindy, I think. Maybe Craig told her. I don’t want to answer any more questions.”
“Did Sondra have anything to do with this?”
E. Z.’s eyes darted away.
“Is she the one who did it?”
“I don’t know. I can’t say…for sure.”
“But you think it was her.”
“Maybe.” The she quickly added, “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“Yes, you should. We’re talking about attempted murder. It looks like he’s going to be okay once his ribs heal—but we can’t let whoever did this get away with it. Can we?”
E. Z. considered the question for a moment. “I followed her car. She did go into his shop for a few minutes and then left. But I don’t know what she did while she was in there.”
**********
“So, what do think? Should I get it?” said Boomer, as she took off her bright orange tux coat and hung it in her tiny closet. Most of her clothes were still in suitcases. In a cheap motel like Butterfly Inn you were lucky if you got a closet big enough to hang three or four items.
“Sure.” Sondra was sitting on the bed, reading the detailed specifications for the bass guitar Boomer was interested in buying. “You’ve got this kind of money to spend?”
“Well, no—not yet. But now that I have a paying gig I can save up for it.”
“Don’t you want to get your own place first?”
“I really want that bass,” said Boomer. “An apartment can wait.”
“It’s your money,” said Sondra, handing Boomer the catalog as she stood up. “I gotta go.” She walked toward the door.
Boomer follower her. “Wait. I’ve got to show you something else.”
“Boomer…” Sondra’s patience was wearing thin. She turned around, ex-pecting to see the catalog opened at the bass amplifier page.
Boomer had removed her blouse, and was standing two feet from Sondra. “How do like this bra?”
“What are you doing?” Boomer didn’t even need a bra. “Yeah, that’s nice.”
Sondra was about to turn and bolt for the door when Boomer grabbed her and pulled her tight against her body. Sondra was a strong woman, but Boomer was stronger than a lot of men. She tried to kiss Sondra, but Son-dra turned her head to one side and then the other.
Sondra knew she would never win a battle of strength against her bass player. So, she gave in. She let Boomer kiss her on the lips. When Boomer forced her tongue deep into Sondra’s mouth, she nearly gagged. But then she seemed to give in to the inevitable. She kissed Boomer back, as though she were kissing a man, encircling Boomer’s lips with her tongue and then sliding it inside.
Boomer began get more excited while at the same time relaxing her grip.
“Let’s get this bra off of you,” said Sondra.
Boomer smiled and released her.
Sondra could have tried to run right then, but she knew if she failed she would not get a second chance to earn Boomer’s trust. “Turn around, Ho-ney.”
Boomer turned her back to Sondra.
Before unclasping the bra, Sondra rubbed Boomer’s back. “How does that feel?”
“Good, Baby. Real good,” purred Boomer.
Sondra managed to get her right hand into her pocket for a brief moment, and then quickly returned it to Boomer’s back.
“You’re teasing,” said Boomer.
“I’m teasing myself too.”
“Oh, Baby.”
Sondra worked both fists up Boomer’s back, and then onto her neck. The key ring was in her right hand. She extended a key, turning the pointy side to Boomers neck. It was a new house key Val had made for her daughter, and it still had razor sharp edges. She slashed it viciously across Boomer’s neck, from front to back.
Boomer jumped away from Sondra. Blood gushed out of her neck with each beat of her heart. “What did you do to me?” She tried to stop the bleeding with her hands, to no avail. She walked toward Sondra, but then stumbled and fell to the floor. “Call 9-1-1, Sondra! Please!”
“You just wouldn’t listen,” said Sondra, standing over her.
“I’m sorry. But please don’t let me die!”
“Nobody can save you now. Goodbye, Boomer.”
**********
Greg wondered what was taking Sondra so long. He was fairly certain that there was only one way in and out of Butterfly Inn’s parking lot. But what if he was mistaken? She might have already gotten away.
The two U-Haul trucks he had parked between were blocking his view of everything to his sides. He got out and walked to the front of his car to make sure Sondra was still there. He thought he saw her car, but he wasn’t sure. He decided to take a closer look.
When he reached Boomer’s room he confirmed that Sondra’s car was still parked there. But instead of walking back to his car, he decided to listen at the door.
Suddenly the door opened and he jumped back.
“What are you doing here?” said Sondra.
“I need to talk to you.”
She hesitated. “Okay. Come in.”
“Why don’t you just step out here for a minute?”
“No. If you want to talk then you’ll have to come in here.”
Maybe this was better, he thought. Sondra would probably lie. Perhaps Boomer would accidentally let something slip.
Greg stepped into the dark room, and the door closed behind him. “Could you please turn on a—”
Sondra hit him over the head with a lamp.
He crumbled to the floor.
**********
“He’s still not answering.” Cynthia closed her cell phone. She and E. Z. were standing in the parking lot at Billy-Eye’s. “Now I’m getting worried.”
“Where would he have gone?”
“He must have followed Sondra. That’s got to be it. And his phone must be dead.” She was about to freak out. “Could you give me a ride?”
“Sure. Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t know. Where would Sondra go?”
**********
Greg gradually became aware of a very loud noise—possibly the TV. But why was it turned up so loud? And why was he having so much trouble waking up?
As his vision began to clear, he realized he head was lying on top of a woman. But it wasn’t Cynthia! What in the world is going on here? I hope I’m still dreaming, he thought.
When he raised his head he saw the blood. It was all over the woman’s up-per chest, shoulders, and neck. He pushed himself up with his hands. That was when he realized that he and the woman were on the floor. The blood was everywhere—all over the floor and furniture, in drips and smears and puddles. He wondered if there was any left in her body.
Then he recognized the woman—it was Boomer, the bass guitar player. She was completely naked—and so was he! How did this happen? He got out from between her legs and stood up. He was still wearing shoes and socks. His pants and underwear were at his ankles. He looked at her. Surely we didn’t have sex, he thought. He pulled up his underwear and pants.
How had this happened? And why was the TV blaring? He picked up the remote and turned it off. Immediately, he heard somebody knocking on the door. Banging. He quickly wiped his hands on the bedspread to get most of the blood off and then picked up his shirt from the floor and put it
on. Then he turned off all the lights and went to the door.
He latched the chain and then opened the door just a sliver. “Yes?”
The manager was screaming at the top of her four-pack-a-day hoarse voice. “Are you people crazy—cranking up the TV full-blast at midnight?
“I’m very sorry. We must have dosed off. I think I was lying on the remote. I must have been accidentally pushing the volume button.”
“I tried calling you. Why didn’t you answer the phone?”
“I don’t know. I guess we were really zonked-out.”
“Idiots!” She walked away. “From now on—keep it down!”
Greg closed the door. Should he call the police? Or maybe call Cynthia first? She must be wondering what happen to me, he thought. He found the phone on the floor in a corner. The wires were missing.
He thought about going to the office to call the police. But how was this going to look? Boomer was naked and dead. And his DNA was all over her. They’d probably assume he’d had sex with her. Oh, Cynthia. How would he explain all this to her?
Sondra. She obviously killed Boomer. And now he was sure that she was the one who tried to kill Edsel. She might be on her way to the hospital to finish him off right now. Or she might even go after Cynthia.
If he had to take time for the police right now, Sondra might never be caught. The police interrogation could wait. And Boomer was beyond help anyway. So, he decided to go after Sondra. But how would he ever find her? He didn’t know where to begin to look.
He grabbed Boomer’s purse from the nightstand and dumped the contents out onto the bed. There was a wallet, a pack of gum, lipstick, a few receipts, and some tissues. One of the receipts had something written on the back. He picked it up. It was an address in Orange. Greg knew the street. It might be nothing. But it was all he had.
Oh, God, help me, he prayed as he quietly slipped out the door into the black night.
Chapter 19
When Sondra drove up to the house and parked, she could see that the living room lights were still on. It was after midnight. Val was either drunk or asleep in her recliner—or both.
Sondra unlocked the front door and walked in. “I hope you didn’t wait up for me.”
“Nope. Just watching Leave It to Beaver,” slurred Val.
Sondra glanced at the TV screen to confirm what she thought her mother had said. She hurried to her bedroom, quickly packed her suitcase, grabbed her acoustic guitar and headed back through the living room on her way to the front door.
“June Cleaver never had problems with her daughter.”
“Val, the Cleavers didn’t have any daughters. They just had Wally and The Beaver.”
“They were lucky.”
Sondra didn’t have time for this. She was not going to let her mother drag her into the tired old argument about what kind of a person her daughter had grown up to be. She opened the door and carried her suitcase and gui-tar to her car, and loaded them into the trunk. She planned to drive far away and never come back. But as she opened her car door and started to get in, she realized she would never see her mother again. And she just couldn’t stand to leave without at least saying goodbye.
When Sondra opened the front door to walk back inside, she saw Val hanging up the phone.
“Who were you talking to at this hour?” She had already closed the door behind her when she saw the gun.
Val picked up the pistol from her lap and pointed it at her daughter. “I can’t let you leave town.”
“Val, put that thing down. You’re drunk.”
“I called 9-1-1.”
“Why—to tell them you’re drunk and you’re playing around with a gun?”
“Don’t get smart with me, Young Lady. I called to tell them you killed that boy.”
“What? Are you out of your mind?” Sondra regretted that she hadn’t stran-gled the old woman when she had the chance. “I told you I didn’t kill him! You’re just crazy. You think the police are gonna believe a crazy old wom-an?”
Val ignored her daughter’s remarks. “Of course, I know it’s my fault you turned out like this.”
“Turned out like what? I don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t make any sense when you’re drunk, Val.”
“It all started that night when Buster killed your dog.”
“I don’t want to talk about that. Just put the gun down—please.”
“Well, that’s not really true. I guess it started the first time he beat you. He came home drunk—like he always did on Friday nights, and stepped on one of your toys in the living room and twisted his ankle. He was always telling you to pick up your toys. So, he got mad and yanked you out of bed and whipped you black and blue with his belt. I don’t think he meant to hit you with the buckle. He probably didn’t even know he was holding it by the wrong end. And to this day, every time you look in the mirror and see that scar over your right eye, it must remind you of that night.”
“I never even think about that. Now, put down the gun.”
“And that wasn’t the last time he beat you. But then—when he killed your dog…what was that little dog’s name? Muttly. Yeah, that’s it.”
“Stop.” Sondra stepped toward Val, hoping she could snatch the pistol out of her hand.
Val raised the gun higher. “Get back!”
Sondra slowly moved back to where she had been standing.
“Yeah. You had gone off to school without feeding Muttly, and when your father came home that night you were at a friend’s house. That little dog was barking like crazy by the time he got home.”
“Why didn’t you feed him?”
“I wanted you to learn a lesson. It was your job. And I knew Buster would get mad and chew you out for it.”
“Thanks,” said Sondra, with rancorous sarcasm.
“Yeah. I’ve always felt guilty about that.” She paused. “But it was what hap-pened the next night that ruined you for life.”
“It didn’t ruin me. I wanted him dead.”
“I know you did. And I was afraid of what you would do,” said Val, begin-ning to sober up just a bit.
“It felt so good when I saw him sprawled out on the sidewalk with his head busted open.”
“But it was wrong. He was a mean drunk—but he didn’t deserve to die.”
“Yes, he did.”
“Well, maybe he did. But now that I’ve seen what it did to you—it just wasn’t worth it. You’ve never been the same.”
“Hey, I learned how to stand up for myself that night. I knew from then on I would never let anybody push me around.”
“It’s my fault. And don’t think I haven’t lived with the guilt all these years.”
“Why should you feel guilty? He beat you too.”
Val looked surprised. “I didn’t think you…”
“Of course I knew. How could I not know? Is that why you never screamed? Because you didn’t want me to hear?”
Val stared at her in disbelief.
“I could hear you whimpering for hours afterwards—while he was snoring. The next day, he’d act like nothing happened. And so would you. But I knew.”
“I taught you a lesson alright. But it was the wrong lesson.”
“After that night everything was fine.”
“How can you say that, Sondra? He died. And I’ve never been able to for-give myself. That night is what made you the way you are.”
“I don’t know.” Sondra looked away.
“It should never have happened. I should have left him before it got so bad.”
“Yes, you should have. But you didn’t. And it’s just as well. If we had left him he would have found some other woman to beat up, and maybe she would have had a young daughter too. It was better to stop him before he hurt somebody else.”
“I knew you were so mad at him for killing Muttly. You cried all night. And you wouldn’t come out of your room the next day. I was afraid you’d try to kill him. But by the time he got home, I thought you were already asleep. I had no idea you were watching through the window.”
“Watching and enjoying.”
“Don’t say that. I didn’t want to do it. You make it sound like it was fun.”
“It was fun. It was the most fun I’d ever had. I saw you squatting down on the porch in the shadows. You knew he’d be too drunk to notice you there. Then, when he came walking up the stairs, right as he put his foot on the top step you jumped up and pushed him backward. And you must have pushed hard—because he fell back fast. It was the most beautiful thing in the world. I’ve played it over and over again in slow motion. His arms were flailing—there was nothing to grab onto. His back hit the sidewalk first. He might have been paralyzed if he had lived. Then his big old fat head hit the pavement like a deflated volleyball. I can still see the blood oozing out all over the sidewalk. If you look real close you can still see the red stain.”
“I’ve tried to get it all up. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve scrubbed that sidewalk with bleach.”
“It’s still there. It’ll always be there.”
“And that’s what did it. That’s what turned you bad. It was my fault. But I didn’t know you were watching. I tried to make it look like an accident.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry, Sondra. But it has to stop now. I can’t sit by and let you kill an-ybody else. The police should be here any minute.”
“So, if I tried to walk out of here right now, you’d shoot me? We’ll I don’t believe it. You don’t have the nerve to pull that trigger.”
Car brakes squeaked in front of the house.
“That would be the police,” said Val. “And, for the record, I never intended to shoot you.” She put the barrel in her mouth.
“No!” Sondra ran to stop her. But it was too late. “Why, Val?” She studied her mother’s lifeless body. Her eyes began to well up. Unexpected emo-tions washed over her. She would not give in to them. In her mind, she wasn’t crying as long as the tears stayed in her eyes. But then they began to roll down her face. Finally, they gushed. “Why, Mom? I loved you. I hated you…but I still loved.”
Then Sondra remembered the police. They would be knocking at any mo-ment—then breaking down the door. What would she do? She couldn’t get away in her car. She went to the window and peeped through the curtains.
There were no police cars. The squeaking brakes must have been some neighborhood car at the stop sign. Had Val really even called the police?
Sondra was not going to stick around to find out. She ran out the door, jumped into her car and drove away.
Chapter 20
“Oh, no,” said Cynthia. “Look at all the police cars.”
E. Z. pulled over to the side of the road.
Cynthia scanned the area. “I don’t see Greg’s car.”
“Good.”
“But where is he?”
An ambulance drove past them and pulled into Valerie Crench’s driveway.
“Wonder why they don’t have their lights flashing?”
Cynthia looked at her. “Because whoever they came for is already dead.”
They watched as the body was carried out of the house and loaded into the ambulance.
“Maybe it’s Sondra’s mother,” said E. Z. “Because I don’t see Sondra’s car.”
“Greg must be following her. I just wish we had some idea where they went.”
“The hospital?”
Cynthia perked up, then became frantic. “I hope we’re not too late.”
E. Z. turned around in a neighbor’s driveway and headed for the hospital.
**********
Greg was tempted to run the light. This was an emergency. He needed to get to Sondra’s house before she got away. Although, he was only guessing she had gone there to pack up and get out of town. She probably figured that right about now Greg was being handcuffed and thrown into a police car.
The traffic signal finally turned green. Just as his foot touched the accele-rator, a car blew through the light, barely missing his front bumper. He hit the brakes.
Wasn’t that Sondra’s car? He wasn’t sure, but he turned right and followed it anyway. If it was Sondra, had she recognized his car? Did she even know what kind of car he drove? At the motel he had parked it well away from Boomer’s room.
Greg was determined to catch her. His fingerprints and DNA were all over that motel room. All over Boomer. Normally he had confidence in the legal process. But now that his freedom was on the line, could he really trust that the police would believe his story? If he wasn’t guilty then why did he flee the scene of the crime?
**********
Cynthia flipped on the light. “Are y’all okay?”
Angie jerked awake. “What?”
Edsel’s eyes sprung open and he sat up in bed. He winced at the sharp pain in his chest and held his breath.
“I’m sorry,” said Cynthia. “But we were afraid Edsel might be in danger.”
Angie and Edsel both stared at E. Z.
“No, it’s not her,” said Cynthia. “Sondra’s the one who tried to kill you.”
“That makes a lot more sense,” said Edsel.
Angie looked at E. Z. “But why were you here this afternoon?”
“Well, I…”
Cynthia’s cell phone began to ring. It wasn’t Greg’s ringtone. She flipped it open. “Hello?”
“Cynthia, my phone died. I’m calling from a pay phone. I don’t have much time, so I’ve got to talk fast.”
“Greg,—”
“—I’m following Sondra. She’s trying to get away.”
“Where are you, Honey? I’ll call the police.”
No answer.
“Greg?”
The line went dead.
“Greg’s following Sondra. She’s on the run. But I don’t know where they are. We got cut off.”
“Houston,” said E. Z. “I’ll bet she’s headed back to Houston. It’s the only place she’s every lived besides Orange.”
“We’ve got to follow them,” said Cynthia.
“She probably took Highway 87,” said E. Z. “That’s the quickest way out of town from her mother’s house. But once she gets to Port Arthur it’ll be trickier. There are three major roads from there to Beaumont. Or she might take 73 and bypass Beaumont altogether.”
“We’d better hurry,” said Cynthia.
“Whoa, wait a minute,” said Edsel, gritting his teeth against the pain. “You’re not going without me. That boy’s like a son to me.” He managed to stand up.
Angie jumped up and ran to him. “What are you doing? You can’t go any-where. Get back in that bed.”
“Where are my clothes?” He walked gingerly toward the closet.
“Edsel, don’t be ridiculous,” said Angie, grabbing his arm.
“I’m going,” insisted Edsel.
Angie looked at the other two women. Cynthia shrugged.
“We’ll all go,” said Angie. “We can take my car.”
Edsel turned to her and was about to speak.
She shook her finger at him. “Don’t you even think about it. I’m driving.”
**********
“Good boy,” said Sondra, easing the pressure of the muzzle against Greg’s back. “Where are your car keys?”
“I left them in the ignition.”
“Well, that was foolish. Somebody could have stolen your car while you were out her playing around on the phone.”
He said nothing.
“Now listen carefully. You will walk to the car, open the door, get in and move over to the passenger seat. And you will keep your mouth shut. Un-derstood?”
“Yes.”
Once Greg was in the passenger seat, Sondra got in and started up the en-gine. She held the pistol in her left hand as she steered with her right.
What was she going to do with him? Take him to some dark road and shoot him? Surely she didn’t honestly believe she could get away with that. She’d end up on death row. Didn’t she realize that? Didn’t that scare her? He studied her face. What was he thinking? She hadn’t hesitated to murder a member of her own band. Why would she think twice about killing him?
She drove out of Bridge City toward the Rainbow Bridge. The 680-foot wide bridge was built in 1936, and is still the tallest bridge in Texas, at a height of 177 feet.
As she drove onto the bridge, Greg had a terrible thought. What if she planned to—.
“—you know what I’ve always wanted to see, Greg?”
Was it a trick? She had instructed him not to speak. If he answered the question would she blow his face off?
She went on. “I’ve always wanted to watch somebody dive off the top of this bridge. Ever since I was a kid I’ve pictured it.”
This is not good, thought Greg. He wished he had tried to make a run for it at the convenience store. There would be no place to run and hide now that they were on the bridge.
“Yeah, I’ve always thought that would be so cool—the screaming…the arms flailing…the hopeless plunge to a certain death. And fortunately, there’s not much traffic on this bridge at 1:00 AM.”
He knew she was right. His only hope was for a state trooper to happen by. It was a narrow, two-lane bridge. Parking was obviously not allowed. She could tell the officer that they had engine problems. But he’d probably want her to coast down the bridge. And once he stopped to talk to her, Greg would hint that he was being held against his will. But then Sondra would shoot the trooper at point blank range.
Sondra parked at the top of the bridge. “Get out.”
She walked him to the guardrail, motioning with the gun. “Over you go.”
Greg saw a car approaching the bridge from the Port Arthur side.
Sondra saw it too. “Come over here and be looking at this tire.” She pointed to the front passenger side. “I’ll tell them we have a flat. If you say anything, or try to give them a sign,” she said poking him in the ribs with the pistol, “you’re a dead man.”
**********
Angie’s silver Tahoe zipped through Bridge City.
“You’re gonna get a ticket, Angie,” said Edsel.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re going twenty miles over the speed limit.”
“Well, I may get a ticket. But they’ll have to catch me first. I’m not stopping until I find Greg.”
Edsel smiled. If he’d been driving he would have done the same thing.
Cynthia and E. Z. glanced at each other. Cynthia was worried sick about Greg, and it showed. E. Z. reached over and patted her hand.
Once they cleared Bridge City, they could see the lighted arch up ahead, two-miles away. Angie floored the accelerator. Soon they were traveling at 100 mph.
**********
“Thanks, but there’s really nothing you can do. The rim is bent.” said Son-dra. “We’ve got a tow truck on the way.”
The pickup drove off.
“Nice job, Greg.” said Sondra. “He didn’t suspect a thing.” She took a breath. “Okay, now—where were we? Oh, yeah. You were about to jump off the bridge.”
“Here comes another car,” said Greg.
This one was coming from the Bridge City side.
Sondra was surprised at how fast the headlights were approaching. “They’re going way too fast.”
“Probably drunk,” said Greg.
But as the vehicle got closer it slowed down and pulled in behind Greg’s car. A man shouted from the front passenger’s window, “Don’t do anything crazy, Sondra.”
Sondra recognized him. It was Edsel Torkman. “I’ve got a gun.” Sondra walked Greg backwards until they were up against the guardrail. She wrapped one arm around Greg and held the pistol to his head. “And if you don’t leave right now, I’m gonna blow his brains out.”
“I know you’re the one who dropped the car on my chest,” said Edsel. “But I’m okay. So, don’t make matters worse by hurting my nephew.”
“You’ve got five seconds to get out of here!”
Angie backed up the Tahoe and slowly drove around the Bonneville.
Greg could see that Angie was driving, but he couldn’t tell if Cynthia was in the car. The back windows were tinted dark.
As they headed down the bridge, Edsel shouted, “Fly the rain, Greg. Fly the rain!”
Sondra looked at Greg. “Fly the rain? What does that mean?”
Before he could respond, she went on. “In a few seconds you’re gonna wish you could fly.” She laughed. “Okay. I’m tired of playing around. Climb over the rail!”
Greg stepped up to the guardrail and then looked back at her. “You don’t really want to do this, Sondra.”
When he heard the loud boom, he thought Sondra had shot him. Then he thought she had missed—until his right arm began to sting. “Okay!” He climbed over to the back side of the railing and held on. What did Uncle Ed mean when he yelled ‘fly the rain?’ Do they have a plan to rescue me? Was it some kind of clue?
Sondra stepped in closer. His body would disappear into the darkness long before it hit the water. But she wanted to see all there was to see. There would be no instant replay. If she blinked, she’d miss half of it. She won-dered if she’d be able to hear the splash. His chances of survival were less than 1%. “Okay,” she said. “Do it!”
Chapter 21
Greg knew that if he didn’t jump soon Sondra would shoot him again. Which one was he more likely to survive—a bullet in the back or a seven-teen-story fall? Maybe the pistol would misfire. Maybe she’s out of bullets. Lord, I really need a miracle—and I need it fast.
“Okay, fine,” said Sondra. “It will be more fun this way. I’ll shoot you in the other arm…then each leg. I’ll just keep pumping bullets into your body un-til I run out. Then I’ll give you a push.” She jammed the muzzle into his left triceps.
At any moment Sondra’s bullet would come, with bone-shattering certain-ty. Then on to his legs. No! Greg was not going to just stand there while she turned him into a bloody Raggedy Ann, and then tossed him into the river. But she had a gun. He had nothing. And he was on the outside of the gua-rdrail. No more time to think about it. Must act now!
“Sondra?”
She turned around and saw E. Z. standing near the back of the Bonneville. “What are you doing here? This is none of your business. And how did you get up here?” She heard something and spun around.
But Cynthia was right behind her. She grabbed Sondra’s right wrist and forced it, and the pistol, upward.
The gun discharged into the sky.
Greg started to climb over the guardrail.
Sondra turned sharply and pulled the pistol down, along with Cynthia’s hands. Now the gun was pointed in Greg direction.
He put his foot back down and moved along the outside of the railing, try-ing to get out of the line of fire.
E. Z. joined Cynthia, latching onto Sondra’s arm. They pushed her toward the guardrail, with the same idea—to slam Sondra’s hand down on the top of the railing repeatedly until she dropped the gun.
Greg moved away from them and climbed over the guardrail.
Sondra tried kicking and elbowing Cynthia and E. Z. to get them off of her.
But they were relentless. They whacked her fingers against the unforgiving cold steel of the railing over and over. On the seventh time the pistol fired, but hit nothing. On the tenth, she dropped the gun, and it fell down into the darkness.
Cynthia and E. Z. stepped away from Sondra.
Greg rushed to Cynthia and hugged her.
“Do you have your cell phone?” he said.
“Here come Angie and Edsel,” said E. Z.
“I’m sure they’ve already called the police,” said Cynthia.
“That’s good,” said Sondra. “Now Greg will go to prison where he belongs.”
“What?” said Cynthia.
“Oh, that’s right,” said Sondra. “Greg probably hasn’t had a chance to tell you yet. Go ahead, Greg, tell her how you murdered Boomer.”
“What are you talking about, Sondra?” said E. Z.
“It’s true. Greg followed her to her motel room and raped her. Then he slit her throat. He told me all about it.”
“You’re the one who murdered her,” said Greg. “And then you set me up.”
“Oh, that sounds quite plausible. I’m sure the police will believe every word of it. That is, if they can get past the fact that your sweaty DNA is all over her naked body. But at least you wore a condom.”
“What’s she talking about, Greg?” Cynthia’s faith in Greg was strong, but she was confused, to say the least. She wanted to wipe the smirk off Son-dra’s face. Maybe a hard punch in the teeth would do it. “You’re a liar.”
Sondra laughed. “That’s why I’ll never go to jail.” She climbed up on the guardrail and stood on top of it. A strong gust of wind would have swept her into the air and down into the Neches River. But she showed no con-cern. “I’m just too smart for the police.” She began to walk along the top of the railing as though it were a tightrope.
“We know you killed your mother,” said E. Z.
“I did not!” Sondra twisted and her shoes slipped. She fell off the guardrail, and was unable to catch it on the way down. But she did manage to grab hold of the structure below.
Greg, Cynthia and E. Z. ran to the guardrail.
Sondra’s feet were dangling as she held on with both hands. “Help me, please!”
Without thinking, Greg climbed over the railing.
“Greg, no!” said Cynthia.
“I have to.” He couldn’t just stand by and let Sondra fall to her death—even if she was a murderer.
Angie and Edsel got out of the Tahoe and ran to join Cynthia and E. Z. They all looked on helplessly as Greg climbed down to Sondra.
He held on with his left hand while extending his right down to her. “Grab onto my hand.”
Sondra clamped onto Greg’s wrist with one hand, then the other.
Greg wasn’t sure he could pull her up. But he’d heard stories of people gaining super-human strength in cases like this. He prayed it would kick in.
Sondra looked up at him. She seemed scared at first. Then her face con-torted into the most evil grin Greg had ever seen. “Come with me, Greg. It’ll be such a rush.”
A chill swept over him. It was as if Sondra’s body had been taken over by Satan himself. He no longer cared whether she lived or died. But she was the one holding on.
“You can’t imagine how fantastic it’s going to feel, Greg. Think of your best orgasm. Now multiply it by a thousand.”
“Greg, let her go!” yelled Cynthia.
“I’m trying to!”
Sondra began swinging her legs forward and backward while laughing hys-
terically. “Let’s have an accident together, Greg. You know you want to.”
His arm was burning and going numb at the same time. The blood oozing from the bullet wound had soaked his shirt sleeve and was beginning to run down his arm.
Sondra began to lose her grip as the blood flowed down onto her hands and between her fingers. Finally, she clung to the knot at the end of the rope—Greg’s hand. As the inevitable sunk in, she looked up into Greg’s eyes.
Greg could see that Satan was gone now. The grin had disap-peared—replaced by sheer terror. But she didn’t scream. She just contin-ued to look up at Greg as her body was sucked down into the abyss.
**********
Cynthia checked the clock on the emergency waiting room wall. It was nearly 2:00 AM. “How bad do you have to be hurt for them to see you right away?”
Paramedics rushed in pushing a gurney, and went directly into the emer-gency room. The woman was screaming at the top of her lungs.
“That bad, I guess,” said Greg, pressing a towel against his bloody arm.
Edsel and Angie walked up. “We had a little talk with the police,” said An-gie. “You can wait until tomorrow to give your statement.” They sat down in the corner next to E. Z.
“Good. Thanks,” said Cynthia. On their drive to the hospital, Greg had ex-plained what happened with Boomer.
“Tomorrow? It’s already tomorrow. But I guess I should just be glad I’m still around for it. Thanks guys, for coming to rescue me.”
“You’re welcome,” said E. Z.
“What I don’t understand,” said Greg “is how you and Cynthia popped up all of the sudden and surprised Sondra. How did you do that?”
“Yeah, that was a good plan.” Cynthia smiled and gave E. Z. a high five. “You tell him. It was your idea.”
“Okay. Here’s what we did: While Edsel was talking to Sondra from the car, Cynthia and I slipped out the door on the other side. Then we got down real low and sneaked up to the side of your car.”
“Then Angie just drove around you and went down the bridge,” said Greg.
“Right,” said Cynthia.
“It scared me to death,” said Angie. “But somebody had to do something.” She paused and reached over to take E. Z.’s hand. “But, I still don’t under-stand why you went to Edsel’s hospital room this afternoon.”
“You really don’t know who am I?” said E. Z.
Angie was puzzled. “Should I?”
“I moved here to Orange so I could meet you.”
“Why did you want to meet me?”
“I grew up in a little town west of Fort Worth. But when I turned sixteen I started searching for you. Because that’s when they told me.”
Angie felt a lump in her throat.
“I’m your daughter.”
Angie started crying.
Edsel put his arm around her as he spoke to E. Z. with a gentle firmness. “I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. Angie doesn’t have any children.”
E. Z. placed her hand on Angie’s shoulder. “You never told him?”
“Don’t,” said Edsel. “You’re making her cry.”
“It’s okay,” said Angie. “It’s true.” When the nurse that afternoon had as-sumed that the young lady who visited Edsel’s room was Angie’s daughter because she looked just like her, Angie had brushed it aside. How could it have been? She knew she had a daughter somewhere out there in the world, but what were the chances that she’d ever come to Orange, Texas?
“What?” said Edsel.
Greg and Cynthia watched in amazement.
“And I think,” said E. Z., looking at Edsel, “that you’re my father.”
“What? That’s crazy.”
“She’s right,” said Angie.
“That’s impossible,” said Edsel.
“No, it’s not,” said Angie. “Remember that one time when I was a senior in high school.”
“Yeah, but—“
“—well, I got pregnant.”
“No, you didn’t. I was there—remember. Until your dad broke us up right after your graduation and sent you off to—.”
“—to have the baby.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? How could you keep this from me?”
This was what Angie had dreaded. Now there would be no wedding. Edsel would never forgive her for keeping the secret all these years. “I’m sorry. I should have told you.”
“So, it wasn’t that you didn’t want me,” said E. Z.
“No, not at all. My dad thought he was doing the right thing. I was only 18. I wanted to keep you so badly. And I wanted to tell Edsel about you.”
“You should have,” said Edsel.
“I know.”
“So…I’m really her father?”
Angie could see it in his eyes. He wanted it to be true. “Yes.”
He stood up. “I want to hug my daughter.” Tears began to drip down his face.
E.Z. got up and hugged him gently. “I don’t want to hurt your ribs.”
“It’s okay. Right now I’m feeling no pain.”
Angie stood and joined the hug. “Have you had a good life? What are your parents like?”
“They’re wonderful. I was so lucky. I can’t wait for you to meet them.”
“Well,” said Edsel, “I guess now we’ll have to get married.”
“Huh?” said Angie.
“You know—now that we have a kid.”
They all smiled and hugged tighter.
“Okay,” said Edsel, “not quite that tight.”
“Will you be my maid of honor?”
E. Z. smiled. “I’d love to.”
Angie kissed her on the cheek.
Greg looked at his wife. “Wow. That’s amazing. Did you have any idea?”
“No,” said Cynthia. “Of course, all I could think about this whole time was you.”
Greg kissed her on the lips. “Thank you, Sweetie.” He glanced over at the happy threesome again. “It’s like she’s a baby, and they’re just seeing her for the very first time.”
“Yeah,” said Cynthia. “Wouldn’t that feel great?”
“What?”
“To have a baby.”
“Well, sure. You know I—.” He studied her face. “Are you saying—“
“—yes. I think I’m pregnant.”
“Oh, Honey.” He hugged her. Over her shoulder he saw Angie, Edsel, and
E. Z. still embracing. He was so happy for them. But at the same time he was thankful that he would meet his baby while it was still…a baby.
**********
Greg and Cynthia attended Edsel and Angie’s wedding. It was small, but beautiful. Herman Mayberly apologized to Edsel, Angie, and E. Z. for what he had put them through.
Slowly but surely, Greg made peace with his dad. Ralph had missed Greg and Cynthia’s wedding, but he and Norma drove to Coreyville for the birth of their grandson. Edsel, Angie and E. Z. came too. Greg had wanted to name his firstborn ‘Edsel,’ but he and Cynthia had compromised with ‘Ed-ward.’
Little Edward would be raised in the new tradition of the Tenorly family. Along with love, hope, and faith, his parents would teach him the value of a positive attitude. They would tell him to always fight for what is right. Never give up and never give in. Be your own man and do your own thing to the best of your ability. In the words of Uncle Edsel: FLY THE RAIN.
THE END
**********
For more information about Robert Burton Robinson and his novels, please visit RBRbooks.com

WINDMILLS OF THE GODS BY SIDNEY SHELDON

2008-12-09T12:58:00.001+05:30

Condensed version Synopsis:
It all
began with an astounding call from the White House. One minute Mary Ashley,
Kansas housewife and political science teacher, was chatting over dinner with
her family; the next minute the President of the United States was asking her
to become the new ambassador to Romania! That call changes everything for
Mary Ashley. She becomes an instant celebrity, hounded 'by the press, courted
by politicians. Finally Mary arrives in exotic Bucharest to take up her
duties, confident, refreshingly candid-and dangerously innocent. For
watching her closely is an in- visible network 'of powerful men whose aim is
to sabotage the President's bold new peace plan. They are about to set
a diabolical trap. And the inexperienced young diplomat is the
perfect bait. "We are all victims, Anselmo. Our destinies are decided by a
cosmic roll of the dice, the winds of the stars," the vagrant breezes of
fortune that blow from the windmills of the gods." -H. L. Dietrich A
Final Destiny Prologue Perho, Finland. The meeting took place in a
comfortable weatherproofed cabin in a remote wooded area two hundred miles
from Helsinki. The members of the Western branch of the Committee had arrived
discreetly at irregular intervals. They came from eight different countries,
but their visit had been quietly arranged by a senior minister in
the Valtioneuvosto, the Finnish Council of State, and there was no record
of entry in their passports. Upon their arrival, armed guards escorted them
into the cabin, and'when the last visitor appeared, the cabin door was locked
and the guards took up positions in the full-throated January winds, alert for
any sign of intruders. The members, seated around the large rectangular
table, were men in powerful positions, high in the councils of their
respective governments. They had all met before in their official capacities,
and they trusted one another because they had no choice. For added
security, each had been assigned a code name. The meeting lasted almost five
hours, and the discussion was heated. Finally the chairman decided the time
had come to call for a vote. He rose, standing tall, and turned to the man
seated at his right. "Sigurd?" "Yes." "Odin?" "Yes." "Balder?" "We're
moving too hastily. The danger-" "Yes or no, please." "No." "
Freyr?" "Yes." "Sigmund?" "Nein. If this should be exposed, our lives
would be-" "Thor?" "Yes." "Tyr?" "Yes." "I vote yes. The resolution is
passed. I will so inform the Controller. We will observe the usual
precautions and leave at twenty-minute intervals. Thank you, gentlemen." Two
hours and forty-five minutes later the cabin was deserted. A crew of experts
carrying kerosene moved in and set the cabin on fire, the red flames licked by
the hungry winds. When the fire brigade from Perho finally reached the scene,
there was nothing left to see but the smoldering embers that outlined the
cabin against the hissing snow. The assistant to the fire chief approached
the ashes, bent down, and sniffed. "Kerosene," he said. "Arson." The fire
chief was staring at the ruins, a puzzled expression on his face. "That's
strange," he muttered. "What?" "I was hunting in these woods last week.
There was no cabin." Chapter One Stanton Rogers was destined to be President
of the United States. He was a charismatic politician, highly visible to an
approving public, and backed by powerful friends. Unfortunately for Rogers,
his libido got in the way of his career. It was not that Stanton Rogers
fancied himself a Casanova. On the contrary, until that one fateful bedroom
escapade he had been a model husband. He was handsome, wealthy, and although
he had had ample opportunity to cheat on his wife, he had never given another
woman a thought. There was a second, perhaps greater irony: Stanton Rogers'
wife, Elizabeth, was social, beautiful, and intelligent, arld the two of
them shared a common interest in almost everything, whereas Barbara, the woman
Rogers fell in love with, and eventually married after a much headlined
divorce, was five years older than Stanton, pleasant-faced rather than pretty,
and seemed to have nothing in common with him. Stanton was athletic; Barbara
hated all forms of exercise. Stanton was gregarious; Barbara preferred to be
alone with her husband, or to entertain small groups. The biggest surprise
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